i  he 

mi  Law 


\  \ 


Ellen  Glasgow 


THE  ANCIENT  LAW 


BY  THE 
SAME  AUTHOR 

THE   WHEEL  OF  LIFE 

THE   DELIVERANCE 

THE   BATTLE-GROUND 

THE   FREEMAN,    AND   OTHER   POEMS 

THE   VOICE   OF  THE   PEOPLE 

PHASES   OF  AN   INFERIOR   PLANET 

THE   DESCENDANT 


The 
Ancient  Law 


ELLEN  GLASGOW 


New  York 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 
1908 


Univ.  liorary,  Univ.  Calif.,  Santa  Gut 


COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE    &    COMPANY 

PUBLISHED,  JANUARY,  1908 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES 
INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


PS 

3513 
Uf 


TO 
MY   GOOD    FRIEND   EFFENDI 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  FIRST — THE  NEW  LIFE 


CHAPTER 


I.  The  Road          .  3 

II.  The  Night         ...  15 

III.  The  Return  to  Tappahannock    .  .31 

IV.  The  Dream  of  Daniel  Smith       .  .        42 
V.  At  Tappahannock     .          .          .  .54 

VI.  The  Pretty  Daughter  of  the  Mayor  .       62 

VII.  Shows  the  Graces  of  Adversity  .  .        72 

VIII.  "Ten  Commandment  Smith"      .  .        90 

IX.  The  Old  and  the  New       .          .  .       101 

X.  His  Neighbour's  Garden    .          .  in 

XL  Bullfinch's  Hollow    .          .          .  .123 

XII.  A  String  of  Coral     ....      135 

BOOK  SECOND — THE  DAY  OF  RECKONING 

I.  In  Which  a  Stranger  Appears    .          .      147 

II.  Ordway  Compromises  With  the  Past  .      162 

III.  A  Change  of  Lodging          .          .          .174 

IV.  Shows  That  a  Laugh  Does  not  Heal  a 

Heartache   .          .  .  .          .185 

V.     Treats  of  a  Great  Passion  in  a  Simple 

Soul     .          .          .  .          .          .196 

VI.     In  Which  Baxter  Plots      .          .          .      209 
vii 


viii  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

VII.  Shows  That  Politeness,  Like  Charity,    . 

Is  an  Elastic  Mantle     .  .  .222 

VIII.  The  Turn  of  the  Wheel      .  .  .234 

IX.  At  the  Cross-roads              .  .  .      248 

X.  Between  Man  and  Man      .  .  .256 

XI.  Between  Man  and  Woman  26-8 


BOOK  THIRD — THE  LARGER  PRISON 

I.  The  Return  to  Life.           .                    .      281 

II.  His  Own  Place         ....      290 

III.  The  Outward  Pattern        .          .          .303 

IV.  The  Letter  and  the  Spirit          .          .317 
V.  The  Will  of  Alice     .          .          .          .329 

VI.  The  Iron  Bars          .          .          .           .341 

VII.  The  Vision  and  the  Fact            .           -     353 

VIII.  The  Weakness  in  Strength          .           .     363 

BOOK  FOURTH — LIBERATION 

I.  The  Inward  Light    .          .          .          •      379 

II.  At  Tappahannock  Again  .                          392 

III.  Alice's  Marriage         ....      409 

IV.  The  Power  of  the  Blood   .          .          .      420 
V.  The  House  of  Dreams       .         .          .434 

VI.  The  Ultimate  Choice          .          .         .443 

VII.     Flight 454 

VIII.  The  End  of  the  Road       .          .          .469 

IX.  The  Light  Beyond   .          .          .          .482 


BOOK  FIRST 
THE  NEW  LIFE 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  ROAD 

THOUGH  it  was  six  days  since  Daniel  Ordway  had 
come  out  of  prison,  he  was  aware,  when  he 
reached  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  stopped  to  look 
back  over  the  sunny  Virginia  road,  that  he  drank  in 
the  wind  as  if  it  were  his  first  breath  of  freedom. 
At  his  feet  the  road  dropped  between  two  low  hills 
beyond  which  swept  a  high,  rolling  sea  of  broom- 
sedge;  ana  farther  still — where  the  distance  melted 
gradually  into  the  blue  sky — he  could  see  not  less 
plainly  the  New  York  streets  through  which  he 
had  gone  from  his  trial  and  the  walls  of  the  prison 
where  he  had  served  five  years.  Between  this 
memory  and  the  deserted  look  of  the  red  clay  road 
there  was  the  abrupt  division  which  separates 
actual  experience  from  the  objects  in  a  dream. 
He  felt  that  he  was  awake,  yet  it  seemed  that 
the  country  through  which  he  walked  must  vanish 
presently  at  a  touch.  Even  the  rough  March  wind 
blowing  among  the  broomsedge  heightened  rather 
than  diminished  the  effect  of  the  visionary  meeting 
of  earth  and  sky. 

As  he  stood  there  in  his  ill-fitting  clothes,  with  his 
head  bared  in  the  sun  and  the  red  clay  ground  to  fine 
dust  on  his  coarse  boots,  it  would  have  been  difficult 


4  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

at  a  casual  glance  to  have  grouped  him  appropriately 
in  any  division  of  class.  He  might  have  been  either 
a  gentleman  who  had  turned  tramp  or  a  tramp  who 
had  been  born  to  look  a  gentleman.  Though  he 
was  barely  above  medium  height,  his  figure  produced 
even  in  repose  an  impression  of  great  muscular 
strength,  and  this  impression  was  repeated  in  his 
large,  regular,  and  singularly  expressive  features. 
His  face  was  square  with  a  powerful  and  rather 
prominent  mouth  and  chin;  the  brows  were  heavily 
marked  and  the  eyes  were  of  so  bright  a  blue  that 
they  lent  an  effect  which  vvas  almost  one  of  gaiety 
to  his  smile.  In  his  dark  and  slightly  coarsened  face 
the  colour  of  his  eyes  was  intensified  until  they 
appeared  to  flash  at  times  like  blue  lights  under  his 
thick  black  brows.  His  age  was,  perhaps,  forty  years, 
though  at  fifty  there  would  probably  be  but  little 
change  recorded  in  his  appearance.  At  thirty  one 
might  have  found,  doubtless,  the  same  lines  of  suffer- 
ing upon  his  forehead  and  about  his  mouth. 

As  he  went  on  over  some  rotting  planks  which 
spanned  a  stream  that  had  gone  dry,  the  road  he 
followed  was  visible  as  a  faded  scar  in  a  stretch  of 
impoverished,  neutral-toned  country — the  least  dis- 
tinctive and  most  isolated  part  of  what  is  known  in 
Virginia  as  "the  Southside."  A  bleached  monotony 
was  the  one  noticeable  characteristic  of  the  landscape 
— the  pale  clay  road,  the  dried  broomsedge,  and  even 
the  brownish,  circular-shaped  cloud  of  smoke,  which 
hung  over  the  little  town  in  the  distance,  each 
contributing  a  depressing  feature  to  a  face  which 


THE  ROAD  5 

presented  at  best  an  unrelieved  flatness  of  colour. 
The  single  high  note  in  the  dull  perspective  was 
struck  by  a  clump  of  sassafras,  which,  mistaking  the 
mild  weather  for  a  genial  April,  had  flowered  tremu- 
lously in  gorgeous  yellow. 

The  sound  of  a  wagon  jolting  over  the  rough  road, 
reached  him  presently  from  the  top  of  the  hill,  and 
as  he  glanced  back,  he  heard  a  drawling  curse  thrown 
to  the  panting  horses.  A  moment  later  he  was  over- 
taken by  an  open  spring  wagon  filled  with  dried 
tobacco  plants  of  the  last  season's  crop.  In  the 
centre  of  the  load,  which  gave  out  a  stale,  pungent 
odour,  sat  a  small  middle-aged  countryman,  who 
swore  mild  oaths  in  a  pleasant,  jesting  tone.  From 
time  to  time,  as  the  stalks  beneath  him  were  jostled 
out  of  place,  he  would  shift  his  seat  and  spread  out 
his  short  legs  clad  in  overalls  of  blue  jean.  Behind 
him  in  the  road  the  wind  tossed  scattered  and 
damaged  leaves  of  tobacco. 

When  the  wagon  reached  Ordway,  he  glanced  over 
his  shoulder  at  the  driver,  while  he  turned  into  the 
small  grass-grown  path  amid  the  clumps  of  sassafras. 

"Is  that  Bernardsville  over  there?"  he  asked, 
pointing  in  the  direction  of  the  cloud  of  smoke. 

The  wagon  drew  up  quickly  and  the  driver — who 
showed  at  nearer  view  to  be  a  dirty,  red-bearded 
farmer  of  the  poorer  class — stared  at  him  with  an 
expression  which  settled  into  suspicion  before  it  had 
time  to  denote  surprise. 

"Bernardsville!  Why,  you  've  come  a  good  forty 
miles  out  of  your  road.  That  thar  's  Tappahannock." 


6  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Tappahannock?     I  hadn't  heard  of  it.'" 
"Mebbe  you  ain't,  but  it  never  knowed  it." 
"Anything  going  on  there?     Work,  I  mean?" 
"The    biggest    shippin'    of    tobaccy    this    side    o' 
Danville  is  goin'  on  thar.     Ever  heard  o'  Danville?" 
"  I  know  the  name,  but  the  tobacco  market  is  about 
closed  now,  isn't  it?     The  season  's  over." 

The  man's  laugh  startled  the  waiting  horses,  and 
lifting  their  heads  from  a  budding  bush  by  the  road- 
side, they  moved  patiently  toward  Tappahannock. 

"Closed?  Bless  you,  it  never  closes — Whoa!  thar, 
won't  you,  darn  your  To  be  sure  sales  ain't  so  brisk 
to-day  as  they  war  a  month  back,  but  I  'm  jest 
carryin'  in  my  leetle  crop  to  Baxter's  warehouse." 

"It  isn't  manufactured,  then — only  bought  and 
sold?" 

"Oh,  it's  sold  quick  enough  and  bought,  too. 
Baxter  auctions  the  leaf  off  in  lots  and  it 's  shipped 
to  the  factories  in  Richmond  an'  in  Danville.  You 
ain't  a  native  of  these  parts,  I  reckon?" 
"A  native — no?  I  'm  looking  for  work." 
"What  sort  of  work?  Thar 's  work  an'  work.  I 
saw  a  man  once  settin'  out  in  an  old  field  doin'  a 
picture  of  a  pine  tree,  an'  he  called  it  work.  Wall, 
wall,  if  you  're  goin'  all  the  way  to  Tappahannock, 
I  reckon  I  kin  give  you  a  lift  along.  Mebbe  you 
kin  pick  up  an  odd  job  in  Baxter's  warehouse — 
thar 's  a  say  in'  that  he  feeds  all  the  crows  in  Tappa- 
hannock." 

He  drove  on  with  a  chuckle,  for  Ordway  had 
declined  the  proffered  "lift,"  and  the  little  cloud  of 


THE  ROAD  7 

dust  raised  by  the  wagon  drifted  slowly  in  the  direction 
of  the  town. 

A  mile  farther  on  Ordway  found  that  as  the  road 
approached  Tappahannock,  the  country  lost  grad- 
ually its  aspect  of  loneliness,  and  the  colourless  fields 
were  dotted  here  and  there  with  small  Negro  cabins, 
built  for  the  most  part  of  unbarked  pine  logs  laid 
roughly  cross-wise  to  form  square  enclosures.  Before 
one  of  these  primitive  dwellings  a  large  black  woman, 
with  a  strip  of  checked  blue  and  white  gingham  bound 
about  her  head,  was  emptying  a  pail  of  buttermilk 
into  a  wooden  trough.  When  she  saw  Ordway 
she  nodded  to  him  from  the  end  of  the  little  path, 
bordered  by  rocks,  which  led  from  the  road- 
side to  the  single  stone  step  before  her  cabin 
door. 

As  he  watched  the  buttermilk  splash  into  the 
trough,  Ordway  remembered,  with  a  spasm  of  faint- 
ness,  that  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  day  before, 
and  turning  out  of  the  road,  he  asked  the  woman 
for  a  share  of  the  supper  that  she  gave  the  pigs. 

"Go  'way,  honey,  dis  yer  ain'  fit'n  fur  you,"  she 
replied,  resting  the  pail  under  her  arm  against  her 
rolling  hip,  "  Fse  des'  thowin'  hit  ter  de  hawgs." 

But  when  he  had  repeated  his  request,  she  motioned 
to  a  wooden  bench  beside  a  scrubby  lilac  bush  on 
which  a  coloured  shirt  hung  drying,  and  going  into 
the  single  room  inside,  brought  him  a  glass  of  but- 
termilk and  a  piece  of  corn  bread  on  a  tin  plate. 
While  he  ate  hungrily  of  the  coarse  food  a  half- 
naked  Negro  baby,  covered  with  wood  ashes,  rolled 


8  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

across  the  threshold  and  lay  sprawling  in  the  path 
at  his  feet. 

After  a  little  rambling  talk  the  woman  went  back 
into  the  cabin,  where  she  whipped  up  cornmeal  dough 
in  an  earthenware  bowl,  turning  at  intervals  to  toss 
a  scrap  or  two  to  a  red  and  white  cock  that  hovered, 
expectant,  about  the  doorway.  In  the  road  a 
covered  wagon  crawled  by,  and  the  shadow  it  threw 
stretched  along  the  path  to  the  lilac  bush  where  the 
coloured  shirt  hung  drying.  The  pigs  drank  the 
buttermilk  from  the  trough  with  loud  grunts;  the 
red  and  white  cock  ventured,  alert  and  wary,  across 
the  threshold;  and  the  Negro  baby,  after  sprawling 
on  its  stomach  in  the  warm  earth,  rolled  over  and  lay 
staring  in  silence  at  the  blue  sky  overhead. 

There  was  little  beauty  in  the  scene  except  the 
beauty  which  belongs  to  all  things  under  the  open 
sky.  Road  and  landscape  and  cabin  were  bare  even 
of  any  chance  effect  of  light  and  shadow.  Yet 
there  was  life — the  raw,  primal  life  of  nature — and 
after  his  forty  years  of  wasted  experience,  Ordway 
was  filled  with  a  passionate  desire  for  life.  In 
his  careless  pursuit  of  happiness  he  had  often  found 
weariness  instead,  but  sitting  now  homeless  and  penni- 
less, before  the  negro's  cabin,  he  discovered  that 
each  object  at  which  he  looked — the  long  road  that 
led  somewhere,  the  smoke  hanging  above  the  distant 
town,  the  deep-bosomed  negro  mother  and  the 
half-naked  negro  baby — that  each  of  these  possessed 
an  interest  to  which  he  awakened  almost  with  a  start 
of  wonder.  And  yielding  to  the  influence  of  his 


THE  ROAD  9 

thought,  his  features  appeared  to  lose  gradually  their 
surface  coarseness  of  line.  It  was  as  if  his  mouth 
grew  vague,  enveloped  .in  shadow,  while  the  eyes 
dominated  the  entire  face  and  softened  its  ex- 
pression to  one  of  sweetness,  gaiety  and  youth. 
The  child  that  is  in  every  man  big  enough  to  contain 
it  looked  out  suddenly  from  his  altered  face. 

He  was  thinking  now  of  a  day  in  his  boyhood — of 
an  early  autumn  morning  when  the  frost  was  white 
on  the  grass  and  the  chestnuts  dropped  heavily  from 
the  spreading  boughs  and  the  cider  smelt  strong  and 
sweet  as  it  oozed  from  the  crushed  winesaps.  On 
that  morning,  after  dressing  by  candlelight,  he  had 
gone  into  town  with  his  maiden  aunt,  a  lady  whom 
he  remembered  chiefly  by  her  false  gray  curls  which 
she  wore  as  if  they  had  been  a  halo.  At  the  wayside 
station,  while  they  had  waited  for  the  train  to  the 
little  city  of  Botetourt,  he  had  seen  a  convict  brought 
in,  handcuffed,  on  his  way  to  the  penitentiary,  and 
in  response  to  the  boy's  persistent  questioning,  his 
aunt  had  told  him  that  the  man  was  wicked,  though 
he  appeared  to  the  child's  eyes  to  be  only  miserable — 
a  thin,  dirty,  poorly  clad  labourer  with  a  red  cotton 
handkerchief  bound  tightly  about  his  jaw.  A  severe 
toothache  had  evidently  attacked  him,  for  while 
he  had  stared  sullenly  at  the  bare  planks  of  the  floor, 
he  had  made  from  time  to  time  a  suffering,  irritable 
movement  with  his  head.  At  each  gesture  the  guard 
had  called  out  sharply:  "Keep  still  there,  won't 
you? "  to  which  the  convict  had  responded  by  a  savage 
lowering  of  his  heavy  brows. 


io  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

For  the  first  time  it  had  occurred  to  the  child  that 
day  that  there  must  be  a  strange  contradiction — a 
fundamental  injustice  in  the  universal  scheme  of 
nature.  He  had  always  been  what  his  father  had 
called  impatiently  "a  boy  with  ideas,"  and  it  had 
seemed  to  him  then  that  this  last  "idea"  of  his  was 
far  the  most  wonderful  of  them  all — more  wonderful 
than  any  he  had  found  in  books  or  in  his  own 
head  at  night.  At  the  moment  he  had  felt  it  swell 
so  large  in  his  heart  that  a  glow  of  happiness  had 
spread  through  his  body  to  his  trembling  hands. 
Slipping  from  his  aunt's  hold  he  had  crossed  the 
room  to  where  the  convict  sat  sullenly  beside  his 
guard. 

"I'll  give  you  all  my  money,"  he  had  cried  out 
joyously,  "because  I  am  so  much  happier  than  you." 

The  convict  had  started  and  looked  up  with  an 
angry  flash  in  his  eyes;  the  guard  had  burst  into  a 
loud  laugh  while  he  spat  tobacco  juice  through  the 
window;  the  silver  had  scattered  and  rolled  under 
the  benches  on  the  plank  floor;  and  the  child's  aunt,, 
rustling  over  in  her  stiff  brocade,  had  seized  his  arm 
and  dragged  him,  weeping  loudly,  into  the  train. 
So  his  first  mission  had  failed,  yet  at  this  day  he 
could  remember  the  joy  with  which  he  had  stretched 
out  his  little  hand  and  the  humiliation  in  which  he 
had  drawn  it  back.  That  was  thirty  years  ago,  but 
he  wondered  now  if  the  child's  way  had  been  God's 
way,  after  all? 

For  there  had  come  an  hour  in  his  life  when  the 
convict  of  his  boyhood  had  stood  in  closer  relationship 


THE  ROAD  ii 

to  his  misery  than  the  people  whom  he  had  touched 
in  the  street.  His  childish  memories  scattered  like 
mist,  and  the  three  great  milestones  of  his  past 
showed  bare  and  white,  as  his  success,  his  temp- 
tation and  his  fall.  He  remembered  the  careless 
ambition  of  his  early  youth,  the  brilliant  promise 
of  his  college  years,  and  the  day  on  which  he  had 
entered  as  a  younger  member  the  great  banking 
house  of  Amos,  Bonner,  and  Amos.  Between  this 
day  and  the  slow  minutes  when  he  had  stood  in  his 
wife's  sitting-room  awaiting  his  arrest,  he  could 
find  in  his  thoughts  no  gradation  of  years  to  mark 
the  terrible  swiftness  of  his  descent.  In  that  time 
which  he  could  not  divide  Wall  Street  had  reached 
out  and  sucked  him  in;  the  fever  of  speculation  had 
consumed  like  disease  the  hereditary  instincts,  the 
sentiments  of  honour,  which  had  barred  its  way. 
One  minute  he  had  stood  a  rich  man  on  the  floor 
of  the  Stock  Exchange — and  was  it  an  instant  or  a 
century  afterwards  that  he  had  gone  out  into  the 
street  and  had  known  himself  to  be  a  beggar  and 
a  criminal?  Other  men  had  made  millions  with 
the  use  of  money  which  they  held  in  trust;  but  the 
star  of  the  gambler  had  deserted  him  at  the  critical 
hour ;  and  where  other  men  had  won  and  triumphed, 
he  had  gone  down,  he  told  himself,  dishonoured  by 
a  stroke  of  luck.  In  his  office  that  day  a  mirror  over 
the  mantel  had  showed  him  his  face  as  he  entered, 
and  he  had  stopped  to  look  at  it  almost  with  curiosity 
— as  if  it  were  the  face  of  a  stranger  which  repelled 
him  because  it  bore  some  sinister  likeness  to  his  own. 


12  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

After  this  there  had  come  days,  weeks,  months, 
when  at  each  sudden  word,  at  each  opening  of  the 
door,  he  had  started,  half  sickened,  by  fear  of  the 
discovery  which  he  knew  must  come.  His  nerves 
had  quivered  and  given  way  under  the  pressure;  he 
had  grown  morose,  irritable,  silent;  and  in  some  half- 
insane  frenzy,  he  had  imagined  that  his  friends,  his 
family,  his  wife,  even  his  young  children,  had  begun 
to  regard  him  with  terror  and  suspicion.  But  at 
last  the  hour  had  come,  and  in  the  strength  with 
which  he  had  risen  to  meet  it,  he  had  won  back  almost 
his  old  self — for  courage,  not  patience,  was  the 
particular  virtue  of  his  temperament.  He  had  stood 
his  trial  bravely,  had  heard  his  sentence  without  a 
tremor,  and  had  borne  his  punishment  without 
complaint.  The  world  and  he  were  quits  now,  and  he 
felt  that  it  owed  him  at  least  the  room  for  a  fair  fight. 
The  prison,  he  had  said  once,  had  squared  him 
with  his  destiny,  yet  to-day  each  act  of  his  past 
appeared  to  rivet,  not  itself,  but  its  result  upon  his 
life.  Though  he  told  himself  that  he  was  free, 
he  knew  that,  in  the  reality  of  things,  he  was 
still  a  prisoner.  From  the  lowest  depths  that  he 
had  touched  he  was  reached  even  now  by  the 
agony  of  his  most  terrible  moment  when,  at  the 
end  of  his  first  hopeless  month,  he  had  found  awaiting 
him  one  day  a  letter  from  his  wife.  It  was  her 
final  good-bye,  she  had  written;  on  the  morrow 
she  would  leave  with  her  two  children  for  his 
father's  home  in  Virginia ;  and  the  single  condition 
upon  which  the  old  man  had  consented  to  provide 


THE  ROAD  13 

for  them  was  that  she  should  separate  herself 
entirely  from  her  husband.  "The  condition  is  hard," 
she  had  added,  "made  harder,  too,  by  the  fact  that 
you  are  his  son  and  my  only  real  claim  upon  him  is 
through  you — yet  when  you  consider  the  failure  of 
our  life  together,  and  that  the  children's  education 
even  is  unprovided  for,  you  will,  I  feel  sure,  admit 
that  my  decision  has  been  a  wise  one." 

The  words  had  dissolved  and  vanished  before  his 
eyes,  and  turning  away  he  had  flung  himself  on  his 
prison  bed,  while  the  hard,  dry  sobs  had  quivered 
like  blows  in  his  chest.  Yet  she  was  right!  His 
judgment  had  acquitted  her  in  the  first  agony  of  his 
reproach,  and  the  unerring  justice  in  her  decision 
had  convicted  him  with  each  smooth,  calm  sentence 
in  her  letter.  As  he  lay  there  he  had  lost  conscious- 
ness of  the  bare  walls  and  the  hot  sunshine  that  fell 
through  the  grating,  for  the  ultimate  desolation  had 
closed  over  him  like  black  waters. 

A  little  later  he  had  gone  from  his  cell  and 
taken  up  his  life  again;  but  all  that  he  remembered 
of  it  now  was  a  voice  that  had  called  to  him  in  the 
prison  yard. 

"You  look  so  darn  sunk  in  the  mouth  I  11  let  you 
have  my  last  smoke — damn  you!" 

Turning  sullenly  he  had  accepted  the  stranger's 
tobacco,  unaware  at  the  moment  that  he  was  par- 
taking of  the  nature  of  a  sacrament — for  while  he  had 
smoked  there  in  his  dogged  misery,  he  had  felt  revive 
in  his  heart  a  stir  of  sympathy  for  the  convict  he  had 
seen  at  the  wayside  station  in  Virginia.  As  if 


14  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

revealed  by  an  inner  illumination  the  impressions  of 
that  morning  had  started,  clear  as  light,  into  his 
brain.  The  frost  on  the  grass,  the  dropping  chestnuts, 
the  strong  sweet  smell  of  the  crushed  winesaps — these 
things  surrounded  in  his  memory  the  wretched  figure 
of  the  man  with  the  red  cotton  handkerchief  bound 
tightly  about  his  swollen  jaw.  But  the  figure  had 
ceased  now  to  stand  for  itself  and  for  its  own  degra- 
dation alone — haunting,  tragic,  colossal,  it  had  be- 
come in  his  thoughts  the  image  of  all  those  who  suffer 
and  are  oppressed.  So  through  his  sin  and  his  re- 
morse, Ordway  had  travelled  slowly  toward  the 
vision  of  service. 

With  a  word  of  thanks  to  the  woman,  he  rose 
from  the  bench  and  went  down  the  little  path 
and  out  into  the  road.  The  wind  had  changed 
suddenly,  and  as  he  emerged  from  the  shelter  of  a 
thicket,  it  struck  against  his  face  with  a  biting  edge. 
Where  the  sun  had  declined  in  the  western  sky,  heavy 
clouds  were  driving  close  above  the  broken  line  of 
the  horizon.  The  night  promised  to  be  cold,  and  he 
pushed  on  rapidly,  urged  by  a  feeling  that  the  little 
town  before  him  held  rest  and  comfort  and  the 
new  life  beneath  its  smoking  chimneys.  Walking 
was  less  difficult  now,  for  the  road  showed  signs  of 
travel  as  it  approached  the  scattered  houses,  which 
appeared  thrust  into  community  by  the  surrounding 
isolation  of  the  fields.  At  last,  as  he  ascended  a 
slight  elevation,  he  found  that  the  village,  screened 
by  a  small  grove  of  pines,  lay  immediately  beneath 
the  spot  upon  which  he  stood. 


CHAPTER    II 
THE  NIGHT 

THE  scattered  houses  closed  together  in  groups, 
the  road  descended  gradually  into  a  hollow,  and 
emerging  on  the  opposite  side,  became  a  street,  and 
the  street  slouched  lazily  downhill  to  where  a  railroad 
track  ran  straight  as  a  seam  across  the  bare  country. 
Quickening  his  steps,  Ordway  came  presently  to  the 
station — a  small  wooden  building  newly  painted  a 
brilliant  yellow — and  pushed  his  way  with  difficulty 
through  a  crowd  of  Negroes  that  had  gathered  closely 
beside  the  waiting  train. 

"Thar  's  a  good  three  hundred  of  the  critters  going 
to  a  factory  in  the  North,"  remarked  a  man  behind 
him,  "an*  yit  they  don't  leave  more  'n  a  speck  of 
white  in  the  county.  Between  the  crows  an'  the 
darkies  I  '11  be  blamed  if  you  can  see  the  colour  of 
the  soil." 

The  air  was  heavy  with  hot,  close  smells — a  ming- 
ling of  smoke,  tobacco,  dust  and  humanity.  A 
wailing  sound  issued  from  the  windows  of  the  cars 
where  the  dark  faces  were  packed  tightly  together, 
and  a  tall  Negro,  black  as  ebony,  in  a  red  shirt 
open  at  the  throat,  began  strumming  excitedly 
upon  a  banjo.  Near  him  a  mulatto  woman  lifted 
a  shrill  soprano  voice,  while  she  stood  beating  the 


16  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

air  distractedly  with  her  open  palms.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  station  a  dog  howled,  and  the  engine 
uttered  an  angry  whistle  as  if  impatient  of  the  delay. 

After  five  years  of  prison  discipline,  the  ugly  little 
town  appeared  to  Ordway  to  contain  an  alluring 
promise  of  freedom.  At  the  instant  the  animation 
in  the  scene  spoke  to  his  blood  as  if  it  had  been 
beauty,  and  movement  seemed  to  him  to  possess 
some  peculiar  aesthetic  quality  apart  from  form  or 
colour.  The  brightly  dyed  calicos  on  the  Negro 
women;  the  shining  black  faces  of  the  men,  smooth 
as  ebony;  the  tragic  primitive  voices,  like  voices 
imprisoned  in  the  soil;  the  strumming  of  the  rude 
banjo;  the  whistling  engine  and  the  howling  dog;  the 
odours  of  smoke  and  dust  and  fertilisers — all  these 
things  blended  in  his  senses  to  form  an  intoxicating 
impression  of  life.  Nothing  that  could  move  or  utter 
sounds  or  lend  a  spot  of  colour  appeared  common 
or  insignificant  to  his  awakened  brain.  It  was  all 
life,  and  for  five  years  he  had  been  starved  in  every 
sense  and  instinct. 

The  main  street — Warehouse  Street,  as  he  found 
later  that  it  was  called — appeared  in  the  distance  as 
a  broad  river  of  dust  which  ran  from  the  little  station 
to  where  the  warehouses  and  small  shops  gave  place 
to  the  larger  dwellings  which  presided  pleasantly 
over  the  neighbouring  fields.  As  Ordway  followed 
the  board  sidewalk,  he  began  idly  reading  the  signs 
over  the  shops  he  passed,  until  "Kelly's  Saloon," 
and  "Baker's  General  Store"  brought  him  suddenly 
upon  a  dark  oblong  building  which  ran  back,  under 


THE  NIGHT  17 

a  faded  brick  archway.  Before  the  entrance  several 
men  were  seated  in  cane  chairs,  which  they  had 
tilted  conveniently  against  the  wall,  and  at  Ordway 's 
approach  they  edged  slightly  away  and  sat  regarding 
him  over  their  pipes  with  an  expression  of  curiosity 
which  differed  so  little  in  the  different  faces  that  it  ap- 
peared to  result  from  some  internal  automatic  spring. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  began  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  "but  I  was  told  that  I  might  find  work 
in  Baxter's  warehouse." 

"Well,  it 's  a  first-rate  habit  not  to  believe  every- 
thing you  're  told,"  responded  an  enormous  man,  in 
half -soiled  clothes,  who  sat  smoking  in  the  middle 
of  the  archway.  "  I  can't  find  work  myself  in  Baxter's 
warehouse  at  this  season.  Ain't  that  so,  boys?"  he 
enquired  with  a  good-natured  chuckle  of  his 
neighbours. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Baxter?"  asked  Ordway  shortly. 

"I  'm  not  sure  about  the  Mister,  but  I  'm  Baxter 
all  right."  He  had  shifted  his  pipe  to  the  extreme 
corner  of  his  mouth  as  he  spoke,  and  now  removing 
it  with  what  seemed  an  effort,  he  sat  prodding  the 
ashes  with  his  stubby  thumb.  His  face,  as  he 
glanced  down,  was  overspread  by  a  fiabbiness  which 
appeared  to  belong  to  expression  rather  than  to 
feature. 

"Then  there's  no  chance  for  me?"  enquired 
Ordway. 

"You  might  try  the  cotton  mills — they  's  just 
down  the  next  street.  If  there  's  a  job  to  be  had  in 
town  you  '11  most  likely  run  up  against  it  there." 


i8  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"  It 's  no  better  than  a  wild  goose  chase  you're 
sending  him  on,  Baxter, "  remarked  a  smaller  member 
of  the  group,  whose  head  protruded  unexpectedly 
above  Baxter's  enormous  shoulder;  "I  was  talking 
to  Jasper  Trend  this  morning  and  he  told  me  he  was 
turning  away  men  every  day.  Whew!  but  this  wind 
is  getting  too  bitter  for  rne,  boys." 

"Oh,  there's  no  harm  can  come  of  trying," 
insisted  the  cheerful  giant,  pushing  back  his  chair 
as  the  others  retreated  out  of  the  wind,  "if  hope 
doesn't  fill  the  stomach  it  keeps  the  heart  up,  and 
that 's  something." 

His  great  laugh  rolled  out,  following  Ordway  along 
the  street  as  he  went  in  pursuit  of  the  fugitive  oppor- 
tunity which  disported  itself  now  in  the  cotton  factory 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  When  he  reached  the  doors 
the  work  of  the  day  was  already  over,  and  a  crowd 
of  operatives  surged  through  the  entrance  and  over- 
flowed into  the  two  roads  which  led  by  opposite  ways 
into  the  town.  Drawing  to  one  side  of  the  swinging 
doors,  he  stood  watching  the  throng  a  moment  be- 
fore he  could  summon  courage  to  enter  the  building 
and  inquire  for  the  office  of  the  manager.  When 
he  did  so  at  last  it  was  with  an  almost  boyish 
feeling  of  hesitation. 

The  manager — a  small,  wiry  man  with  a  wart 
on  the  end  of  his  long  nose — was  hurriedly  piling 
papers  into  his  desk  before  closing  the  factory 
and  going  home  to  supper.  His  hands  moved 
impatiently,  almost  angrily,  for  he  remembered  that 
he  had  already  worked  overtime  and  that  the  muffins 


THE  NIGHT  19 

his  wife  had  promised  him  for  supper  would  be  cold. 
At  any  other  hour  of  the  day  he  would  have  received 
Ordway  v.rith  politeness — for  he  was  at  heart  a  well- 
disposed  and  even  a  charitable  person — but  it  hap- 
pened that  his  dinner  had  been  unsatisfactory  (his 
mutton  had  been  served  half  raw  by  a  new  maid  of 
all-work)  and  he  had  particularly  set  his  hopes  upon 
the  delicious  light  muffins  in  which  his  wife  ex- 
celled. So  when  he  saw  Ordway  standing  between 
him  and  his  release,  his  face  grew  black  and  the 
movements  of  his  hands  passed  to  jerks  of  frantic 
irritation. 

"What  do  you  want?  Say  it  quick — I  've  no  time 
to  talk,"  he  began,  as  he  pushed  the  last  heap  of  papers 
inside,  and  let  the  lid  of  his  desk  fall  with  a  bang. 

"I  'm  looking  for  work,"  said  Ordway,  "and  I  was 
told  at  Baxter's  warehouse " 

"  Darn  Baxter.     What  kind  of  work  do  you  want?  " 

"  I  '11  take  anything — I  can  do  bookkeeping  or " 

"Well,  I  don't  want  a  bookkeeper." 

He  locked  his  desk,  and  turning  to  take  down  his 
hat,  was  incensed  further  by  discovering  that  it  was 
not  on  the  hook  where  he  had  placed  it  when  he  came 
in.  Finding  it  at  last  on  a  heap  of  reports  in  the 
corner,  he  put  it  on  his  head  and  stared  at  Ordway, 
with  his  angry  eyes. 

"You  must  have  come  a  long  way — haven't  you? 
Mostly  on  foot?" 

"A  good  distance." 

"Why  did  you  select  Tappahannock?  Was  there 
any  reason?" 


20  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"I  wanted  to  try  the  town,  that  was  all." 

"Well,  I  tell  you  what,  my  man,"  concluded  the 
manager,  while  his  rage  boiled  over  in  the  added 
instants  of  his  delay;  "there  have  been  a  blamed 
sight  too  many  of  your  kind  trying  Tappahan- 
nock  of  late — and  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to 
move  on  to  a  less  particular  place.  When  we  want 
bookkeepers  here  we  don't  pick  'em  up  out  of  the 
road." 

Ordway  swallowed  hard,  and  his  hands  clinched  in 
a  return  of  one  of  his  boyish  spasms  of  temper.  His 
vision  of  the  new  life  was  for  an  instant  defaced  and 
clouded;  then  as  he  met  the  angry  little  eyes  of  the 
man  before  him,  he  felt  that  his  rage  went  out  of 
him  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come.  Turning  without 
a  word,  he  passed  through  the  entrance  and  out  into 
the  road,  which  led  back,  by  groups  of  negro  hovels, 
into  the  main  street  of  the  town. 

His  anger  gave  place  to  helplessness ;  and  it  seemed 
to  him,  when  he  reached  presently  the  larger  dwellings 
upon  the  hill,  and  walked  slowly  past  the  squares  of 
light  that  shone  through  the  unshuttered  windows, 
that  he  was  more  absolutely  alone  than  if  he  had 
stood  miles  away  from  any  human  habitation.  The 
outward  nearness  had  become  in  his  thoughts  the 
measure  of  the  inner  distance.  He  felt  himself  to  be 
detached  from  humanity,  yet  he  knew  that  in  his 
heart  there  existed  a  stronger  bond  than  he  had  ever 
admitted  in  the  years  of  his  prosperity.  The  generous 
impulses  of  his  youth  were  still  there,  but  had  not 
sorrow  winnowed  them  from  all  that  was  base  or 


THE  NIGHT  21 

merely  selfish?  Was  the  lesson  that  he  had  learned 
in  prison  to  be  wholly  lost?  Did  the  knowledge  he 
had  found  there  count  for  nothing  in  his  life — the 
bitterness  of  shame,  the  agony  of  remorse,  the  com- 
panionship with  misery?  He  remembered  a  Sunday 
in  the  prison  when  he  had  listened  to  a  sermon  from 
a  misshapen  little  preacher,  whose  face  was  drawn 
sideways  by  a  burn  which  he  had  suffered  during  an 
epileptic  seizure  in  his  childhood.  In  spite  of  his 
grotesque  features  the  man  had  drawn  Ordway  by 
some  invisible  power  which  he  had  felt  even  then  to 
be  the  power  of  faith.  Crippled,  distorted,  poorly 
clad,  the  little  preacher,  he  felt,  had  found  the  great 
possession  which  he  was  still  seeking — this  man 
believed  with  a  belief  that  was  larger  than  the  ex- 
ternal things  which  he  had  lost.  When  he  shut  his 
eyes  now  he  could  still  see  the  rows  of  convicts  in 
the  chapel,  the  pale,  greenish  light  in  which  each 
face  resembled  the  face  of  a  corpse,  the  open  Bible  in 
its  black  leather  binding,  and  beside  it  the  grotesque 
figure  of  the  little  preacher  who  had  come,  like  his 
Master,  to  call  not  the  righteous  but  sinners  to 
repentance. 

The  sun  had  dropped  like  a  ball  below  the  gray 
horizon,  and  the  raw  March  wind,  when  it  struck  him 
now,  brought  no  longer  the  exhilaration  of  the  after- 
noon. A  man  passed  him,  comfortable,  well-fed, 
wheezing  slightly,  with  his  fat  neck  wrapped  in  a 
woollen  muffler,  and  as  he  stopped  before  a  white- 
washed gate,  which  opened  into  the  garden  surround- 
ing a  large,  freshly  painted  house,  Ordway  touched 


22  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

his  arm  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  voice  that  had  fallen 
almost  to  a  whisper. 

At  his  words,  which  were  ordinary  enough,  the  man 
turned  on  him  a  face  which  had  paled  slightly  from 
surprise  or  fear.  In  the  twilight  Ordway  could  see 
his  jaw  drop  while  he  fumbled  awkwardly  with  his 
gloved  hands  at  the  latch  of  the  gate. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean — I  don't  know"  he 
repeated  in  a  wheezing  voice,  "I  'm  sorry,  but  I  really 
don't  know,"  he  insisted  again  as  if  in  a  helpless  effort 
to  be  understood.  Once  inside  the  garden,  he  closed 
the  gate  with  a  bang  behind  him,  and  went  rapidly 
up  the  gravelled  walk  to  the  long  piazza  where  the 
light  of  a  lamp  under  a  red  shade  streamed  through 
the  open  door. 

Turning  away  Ordway  followed  the  street  to  the 
end  of  the  town,  where  it  passed  without  distinct 
change  of  character  into  the  country  road.  On  this 
side  the  colour  of  the  soil  had  paled  until  it  looked 
almost  blanched  under  the  rising  moon.  Though 
the  twilight  was  already  in  possession  of  the  fields 
a  thin  red  line  was  still  visible  low  in  the  west,  and 
beneath  this  the  scattered  lights  in  negro  cabins 
shone  like  obscure,  greenish  glow-worms,  hidden 
among  clumps  of  sassafras  or  in  stretches  of  dried 
broomsedge.  As  Ordway  looked  at  these  humble 
dwellings,  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  might  afford  a 
hospitality  denied  him  by  the  more  imposing  houses 
of  the  town.  He  had  already  eaten  of  the  Negro's 
eharity,  and  it  was  possible  that  before  dawn  he 
might  be  compelled  to  eat  of  it  again. 


THE  NIGHT  23 

Beneath  his  feet  the  long  road  called  to  him  as  it 
wound  a  curving  white  line  drawn  through  the  vague 
darkness  of  the  landscape.  Somewhere  in  a  distant 
pasture  a  bull  bellowed,  and  the  sound  came  to  him 
like  the  plaintive  voice  of  the  abandoned  fields. 
While  he  listened  the  response  of  his  tired  feet  to  the 
road  appeared  to  him  as  madness,  and  stopping  short, 
he  turned  quickly  and  looked  back  in  the  direction 
of  Tappahannock.  But  from  the  spot  on  which  he 
stood  the  lights  of  the  town  offered  little  promise  of 
hospitality,  so  after  an  uncertain  glance,  he  moved 
on  again  to  a  bare,  open  place  where  two  roads  met 
and  crossed  at  the  foot  of  a  blasted  pine.  A  few 
steps  farther  he  discovered  that  a  ruined  gate  stood 
immediately  on  his  right,  and  beyond  the  crumbling 
brick  pillars,  he  made  out  dimly  the  outlines  of  several 
fallen  bodies,  which  proved  upon  nearer  view  to  be 
the  prostrate  forms  of  giant  cedars.  An  avenue 
had  once  led,  he  gathered,  from  the  gate  to  a  house 
situated  somewhere  at  the  end  of  the  long  curve,  for 
the  great  trees  lying  across  the  road  must  have  stood 
once  as  the  guardians  of  an  estate  of  no  little  value. 
Whether  the  cedars  had  succumbed  at  last  to  age  or 
to  the  axe  of  the  destroyer,  it  was  too  dark  at  the 
moment  for  him  to  ascertain;  but  the  earth  had 
claimed  them  now,  magnificent  even  in  their  ruin, 
while  under  the  dim  tent  of  sky  beyond,  he  could  still 
discern  their  living  companions  of  a  hundred  years. 
So  impressive  was  the  past  splendour  of  this  approach 
that  the  house  seemed,  when  he  reached  it,  almost 
an  affront  to  the  mansion  which  his  imagination  had 


24  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

reared.  Broad,  low,  built  of  brick,  with  two  long 
irregular  wings  embedded  in  English  ivy,  and  a  rotting 
shingled  roof  that  sloped  over  dormered  windows, 
its  most  striking  characteristic  as  he  first  perceived 
it  under  the  moonlight  was  the  sentiment  which  is 
inevitably  associated  with  age  and  decay.  Never 
imposing,  the  dwelling  was  now  barely  habitable,  for 
the  roof  was  sagging  in  places  over  the  long  wings, 
a  chimney  had  fallen  upon  one  of  the  moss-covered 
eaves,  the  stone  steps  of  the  porch  were  hollowed 
into  dangerous  channels,  and  the  ground  before  the 
door  was  strewn  with  scattered  chips  from  a  neighbour- 
ing wood  pile. 

The  air  of  desolation  was  so  complete  that  at  first 
Ordway  supposed  the  place  to  be  uninhabited,  but 
discovering  a  light  presently  in  one  of  the  upper 
windows,  he  ascended  the  steps  and  beat  with  the 
rusted  knocker  on  the  panel  of  the  door.  For 
several  minutes  there  was  no  answer  to  his  knock. 
Then  the  sound  of  shuffling  footsteps  reached  him  from 
the  distance,  drawing  gradually  nearer  until  they 
stopped  immediately  beyond  the  threshold. 

"  I  ain'  gwine  open  dis  yer  do'  ef'n  hits  oner  dem  ole 
hants,"  said  a  voice  within,  while  a  sharp  point  of 
light  pierced  through  the  keyhole. 

An  instant  later,  in  response  to  Ordway 's  assurance 
of  his  bodily  reality,  the  bolt  creaked  back  with  an 
effort  and  the  door  opened  far  enough  to  admit  the 
slovenly  head  and  shoulders  of  an  aged  negress. 

"Miss  Meely  she's  laid  up  en  she  cyar'n  see  ner 
comp'ny,  Marster,"  she  announced  with  the  evident 


THE  NIGHT  25 

intention  of  retreating  as  soon  as  her  message  was 
delivered. 

Her  purpose,  however,  was  defeated,  for,  slipping 
his  heavy  boot  into  the  crack  of  the  door,  Ordway 
faced  her  under  the  lamp  which  she  held  high  above 
her  head.  In  the  shadows  beyond  he  could  see 
dimly  the  bare  old  hall  and  the  great  winding 
staircase  which  led  to  the  painted  railing  of  the 
gallery  above. 

"  Can  you  give  me  shelter  for  the  night? "  he  asked, 
"I  am  a  stranger  in  the  county,  and  I've  walked 
thirty  miles  to-day." 

"Miss  Meely  don'  wan'ner  comp'ny,"  replied  the 
negress,  while  her  head,  in  its  faded  cotton  hand- 
kerchief, appeared  to  swing  like  a  pendulum  before 
his  exhausted  eyes. 

"Who  is  Miss  Meely?"  he  demanded,  laying  his 
hand  upon  her  apron  as  she  made  a  sudden  terrified 
motion  of  flight. 

"Miss  Meely  Brooke — Marse  Edward's  daughter. 
He  's  daid." 

"Well,  go  and  ask  her.  I  '11  wait  here  on  the  porch 
until  you  return." 

Her  eyelids  flickered  in  the  lamplight,  and  he  saw 
the  whites  of  her  eyes  leap  suddenly  into  prominence. 
Then  the  door  closed  again,  the  bolt  shot  back  into 
place,  and  the  shuffling  sound  grew  fainter  as  it  passed 
over  the  bare  floor.  A  cold  nose  touched  Ordway's 
hand,  and  looking  down  he  saw  that  an  old  fox- 
hound had  crept  into  the  porch  and  was  fawn- 
ing with  pleasure  at  his  feet.  He  was  conscious 


26  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

of  a  thrill  of  gratitude  for  the  first  demonstrative  wel- 
come he  had  received  at  Tappahannock ;  and  while 
he  stood  there  with  the  hound  leaping  upon  his  chest, 
he  felt  that,  in  spite  of  "Miss  Meely,"  hidden  some- 
where behind  the  closed  door,  the  old  house  had  not 
lost  utterly  the  spirit  of  hospitality.  His  hand  was 
still  on  the  dog's  head  when  the  bolt  creaked  again 
and  the  negress  reappeared  upon  the  threshold. 

"Miss  Meely  she  sez  she  's  moughty  sorry,  suh,  but 
she  cyarn'  hev  ner  strange  gent'mun  spendin'  de 
night  in  de  house  She  reckons  you  mought  sleep  in 
de  barn  ef'n  you  wanter." 

As  the  door  opened  wider,  her  whole  person,  clad 
in  a  faded  woollen  dress,  patched  brightly  in  many 
colours,  emerged  timidly  and  followed  him  to  the 
topmost  step. 

"You  des  go  roun'  ter  de  back  en  den  thoo'  de  hole 
whar  de  gate  used  ter  be,  en  dar's  de  barn.  Nuttin* 
ain'  gwine  hu't  you  lessen  hits  dat  ar  ole  ram  'Lejab." 

"Well,  he  shall  not  find  me  unprepared,"  responded 
Ordway,  with  a  kind  of  desperate  gaiety,  and  while 
the  old  hound  still  leaped  at  his  side,  he  found  his 
way  into  a  little  path  which  led  around  the  corner 
of  the  house,  and  through  the  tangled  garden  to  the 
barn  just  beyond  the  fallen  gateposts.  Here  the  dog 
deserted  him,  running  back  to  the  porch,  where  a 
woman's  voice  called;  and  stumbling  over  a  broken 
ploughshare  or  two,  he  finally  reached  the  poor 
shelter  which  Miss  Meely 's  hospitality  afforded. 

It  was  very  dark  inside,  but  after  closing  the  door 
to  shut  out  the  wind,  he  groped  his  way  through  the 


THE  NIGHT  27 

blackness  to  a  pile  of  straw  in  one  comer.  The 
place  smelt  of  cattle,  and  opposite  to  the  spot  on  which 
he  lay,  he  distinguished  presently  a  soft,  regular 
sound  which  he  concluded  to  be  caused  by  the  breath- 
ing of  a  cow.  Evidently  the  barn  was  used  as  a 
cattleshed  also,  though  his  observation  of  the  mansion 
did  not  lead  him  to  suppose  that  "Miss  Meely" 
possessed  anything  approaching  a  herd.  He  remem- 
bered the  old  negress's  warning  allusion  to  the 
ram,  but  so  far  at  least  the  darkness  had  revealed 
nothing  that  could  prove  hostile  to  his  company. 
His  head  ached  and  his  will  seemed  suddenly  be- 
numbed, so  stretching  himself  at  full  length  in  the 
straw  he  fell,  after  a  few  troubled  moments,  into 
the  deep  and  dreamless  sleep  of  complete  physical 
exhaustion. 

An  instant  afterwards,  it  seemed  to  him,  he  was 
aroused  by  a  light  which  flashed  into  his  face  from 
the  opening  door.  A  cold  wind  blew  over  him,  and 
as  he  struggled  almost  blindly  back  into  consciousness, 
he  saw  that  a  girl  in  a  red  cape  stood  holding  a  lantern 
above  her  head  in  the  centre  of  the  barn.  At  his 
first  look  the  red  cape  warmed  him  as  if  it  had  been 
flame ;  then  he  became  aware  that  a  voice  was  speak- 
ing to  him  in  a  peculiar  tone  of  cheerful  authority. 
And  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  red  cape  and  the  rich 
voice  expressed  the  same  dominant  quality  of 
personality. 

"I  thought  you  must  be  hungry/'  said  the  voice 
with  energy,  "so  I  Ve  brought  your  supper." 

Even  while  he  instinctively  grasped  the  tray  she 


28  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

held  out,  he  observed  with  quickened  attention  that 
the  hands  which  offered  him  the  food  had  toiled  out 
of  doors  in  good  and  bad  weather — though  small  and 
shapely  they  were  chapped  from  cold  and  roughened 
by  marks  of  labour. 

"You  'd  better  drink  your  coffee  while  it  's  hot," 
said  the  voice  again. 

The  practical  nature  of  her  advice  put  him  imme- 
diately at  his  ease. 

"It 's  the  first  hot  thing  I  've  had  for  a  week,"  he 
responded. 

"Then  it  will  be  all  the  better  for  you,"  replied  the 
girl,  while  she  reached  up  to  hang  the  lantern  from 
a  rusted  nail  in  the  wall. 

As  the  light  fell  over  her,  the  red  cape  slipped  a 
little  from  her  shoulder  and  she  put  up  her  hand  to 
catch  it  together  on  her  bosom.  The  movement, 
slight  as  it  was,  gave  Ordway  a  chance  to  observe  that 
she  possessed  a  kind  of  vigorous  grace,  which  showed 
in  the  roundness  of  her  limbs  and  in  the  rebellious 
freedom  of  her  thick  brown  hair.  The  airy  little 
curls  on  her  temples  stood  out,  he  noticed,  as  if  she 
had  been  walking  bareheaded  in  the  wind.  At  his 
first  look  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  she  was  beautiful ; 
what  impressed  him  most  was  the  quality  of  radiant 
energy  which  revealed  itself  in  every  line  of  her 
face  and  figure — now  sparkling  in  her  eyes,  now 
dimpling  in  her  cheek,  now  quickening  her  brisk  steps 
across  the  floor,  and  now  touching  her  eyes  and  mouth 
like  an  edge  of  light.  It  may  have  been  merely  the 
effect  of  the  red  cape  on  a  cold  night,  but  as  she  moved 


THE  NIGHT  29 

back  and  forth  into  the  dark  corners  of  the  barn, 
she  appeared  to  him  to  gather  both  warmth  and 
animation  out  of  the  gloom. 

As  she  did  not  speak  again  during  her  work,  he 
found  himself  forced  to  observe  the  same  friendly 
silence.  The  ravenous  hunger  of  the  afternoon  had 
returned  to  him  with  the  odour  of  the  food,  and  he 
ate  rapidly,  sitting  up  on  his  straw  bed,  while  she 
took  up  a  bucket  and  a  piece  of  wood  sharpened  at 
one  end  and  prepared  a  bran  mash  for  the  cow 
quartered  in  a  stall  in  one  corner.  When  a  little- 
later  she  gathered  up  an  armful  of  straw  to  replenish 
the  animal's  bed,  Ordway  pushed  the  tray  aside  and 
made  a  movement  as  if  to  assist  her ;  but  stopping  an 
instant  in  her  task,  she  waved  him  aside  with  the  easy 
dignity  of  perfect  capability. 

"I  can  do  it  myself,  thank  you,"  she  said,  smiling; 
and  then,  glancing  at  his  emptied  plate,  she  added 
carelessly,  "I  11  send  back  presently  for  the  tray  and 
lantern — good-night! " 

Her  tone  had  changed  perceptibly  on  the  last  word, 
for  its  businesslike  authority  had  given  place  to  the 
musical  Southern  drawl  so  familiar  to  his  ears  in 
childhood.  In  that  simple  phrase,  accompanied  by 
the  gracious  bend  of  her  whole  person,  she  had  put 
unconsciously  generations  of  social  courtesy — of  racial 
breeding. 

"Thank  you — good-night,"  he  answered,  rising, 
and  drawing  back  with  his  hand  on  the  heavy  latch. 

Then  before  she  could  reach  the  door  and  pass 
through,  a  second  lantern  flashed  there  out  of  the 


30  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

blackness  beyond,  and  the  terrified  face  of  a  Negro 
urchin  was  thrust  into  the  full  glare  of  light. 

"Fo*  de  good  Lawd,  Miss  Emly,  dat  ar  ole  ram 
done  butt  Sis  Mehitable  clean  inter  de  smoke  'us." 

Perfectly  unruffled  by  the  news  the  girl  looked  at 
Ordway,  and  then  held  out  her  small,  strong  hand 
for  the  lantern. 

"Very  well,  I'll  come  and  shut  him  up,"  she 
responded  quietly,  and  holding  the  red  cape  to- 
gether on  her  bosom,  she  stepped  over  the  threshold 
and  followed  the  Negro  urchin  out  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  RETURN  TO  TAPPAHANNOCK 

AT  SUNRISE  he  came  out  of  the  barn,  and  washed 
his  face  and  hands  at  the  well,  where  he  found  a  coarse 
towel  on  the  moss-covered  trough.  The  day  was 
breaking  clear,  but  in  the  fine  golden  light  the  house 
and  lawn  appeared  even  more  desolate  than  they  had 
done  under  the  full  moon.  Before  the  war  the  place 
had  been  probably  a  comfortable,  unpretentious 
country  mansion.  Some  simple  dignity  still  attached 
to  its  bowers  of  ivy  and  its  ancient  cedars,  but  it 
was  easy  to  imagine  that  for  thirty  years  no  shingle 
had  been  added  to  its  crumbling  roof,  and  hardly  a 
ship  gathered  from  the  littered  walk  before  the  door. 
At  the  end  of  the  avenue  six  great  trees  had  fallen 
a  sacrifice,  he  saw  now,  to  the  mere  lust  for  timber — 
for  freshly  cut  and  still  odorous  with  sap,  the  huge 
trunks  lay  directly  across  the  approach  over  which 
they  had  presided  through  the  tragic  history  of  the 
house.  Judged  by  what  it  must  have  been  in  a  fairly 
prosperous  past,  the  scene  was  sad  enough  even  to 
the  eyes  of  a  stranger;  and  as  Ordway  walked  slowly 
down  the  dim,  fragrant  curve  of  the  avenue,  he  found 
it  difficult  to  place  against  so  sombre  a  background, 
a  figure  as  full  of  life  and  animation  as  that  of  the 
girl  he  had  seen  in  the  barn  on  the  evening  before. 

31 


32  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

She  appeared  to  his  imagination  as  the  embodiment 
of  youth  amid  surroundings  whose  only  remaining 
beauties  were  those  of  age. 

Though  he  had  resolved  yesterday  not  to  return  to 
Tappahannock,  he  found  himself  presently  retracing, 
almost  without  an  effort  of  will,  the  road  which  he 
had  travelled  so  heavily  in  the  night.  Something 
between  sunrise  and  sunset  had  renewed  his  courage 
and  altered  his  determination.  Was  it  only  the 
wasted  strength  which  had  returned  to  him  in  his 
sleep?  Or  was  it — he  hesitated  at  the  thought — the 
flush  of  shame  which  had  burned  his  face  when  the 
girl's  lantern  had  flashed  over  him  out  of  the  dark- 
ness? In  that  pitiless  illumination  it  was  as  if  not 
only  his  roughened  surface,  but  his  secret  sin  was 
laid  bare;  and  he  had  felt  again  all  the  hideous 
publicity  that  had  touched  him  and  put  him  as  one 
apart  in  the  court-room.  Though  he  had  outgrown 
the  sin,  he  knew  now  that  he  must  carry  the  scar 
of  it  until  his  death;  and  he  knew,  also,  that  the 
reality  of  his  punishment  had  been  in  the  spirit  and 
not  in  the  law. 

For  a  while  he  walked  rapidly  in  the  direction  of 
Tappahannock;  then  sitting  down  in  the  sunshine 
upon  the  roadside,  he  ate  the  piece  of  cornbread  he 
had  saved  last  night  from  his  supper.  It  would  be 
several  hours  at  least  before  he  might  hope  to  find 
the  warehouses  open  for  the  day,  so  he  sat  patiently 
eating  his  bread  under  the  bared  boughs  of  a  young 
peach-tree,  while  he  watched  the  surface  of  the  long 
white  road  which  appeared  to  hold  for  him.  as  much 


THE  RETURN  TO  TAPPAHANNOCK       33 

despondency  as  freedom.  A  farmer  driving  a  spotted 
cow  to  market  spoke  to  him  presently  in  a  friendly 
voice;  and  rising  to  his  feet,  he  overtook  the  man  and 
fell  into  the  jogging  pace  which  was  rendered  necessary 
by  the  reluctance  of  the  animal  to  proceed. 

"I  declar'  the  sense  in  them  thar  critters  do  beat 
all,"  remarked  the  farmer,  after  an  ineffectual  tug 
at  the  rope  he  held.  "  She  won't  be  drove  no  more  'n 
a  woman  will — her  head  is  what  she  wants  no  matter 
whar  it  leads  her." 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  inquired  Ordway,  when  they 
had  started  again  upon  the  advance,  "the  name 
of  the  old  house  I  passed  a  mile  or  so  along  the  road? " 

"Oh,  you  mean  Cedar  Hill,  I  reckon! — thar  now, 
Betsey,  that  thar  toad  ain't  a  turnip!" 

"Cedar  Hill,  is  it?  Well,  they  appear  to  be  doing 
their  level  best  to  get  rid  of  the  cedars." 

"Mr.  Beverly  did  that — not  Miss  Em'ly.  Miss 
Emly  dotes  on  them  trees  jest  the  same  as  if  they 
were  made  of  flesh  and  blood." 

"But  the  place  belongs  to  Mr.  Beverly,  I  presume? " 

"If  thar 's  a  shingle  of  it  that  ain't  mortgaged,  I 
reckon  it  does — though  for  that  matter  Miss  Em'ly 
is  overseer  and  manager,  besides  teachin'  every  day 
in  the  public  school  of  Tappahannock.  Mr.  Beverly  's 
got  a  soft  heart  in  his  body — all  the  Brookes  had  that 
they  say — but  the  Lord  who  made  him  knows  that 
he  ain't  overblessed  with  brains.  He  used  to  specu- 
late with  most  of  the  family  money,  but  as  luck  would 
have  it  he  always  speculated  wrong.  Then  he  took 
to  farmin',  but  he  's  got  such  a  slow  gentlemanly 


34  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

way  about  him  that  nothin*  he  puts  in  the  ground  ever 
has  spirit  enough  to  come  up  agin.  His  wife's  just 
like  him — she  was  Miss  Amelia  Meadows,  his  second 
cousin  from  the  up-country,  and  when  the  children 
kept  on  comin'  so  thick  and  fast,  as  is  the  Lord's 
way  with  po'  folks,  people  said  thar  warn't  nothin' 
ahead  of  'em  but  starvation.  But  Miss  Em'ly  she 
come  back  from  teachin'  somewhar  down  South  an* 
undertook  to  run  the  whole  place  single-handed. 
Things  are  pickin'  up  a  little  now,  they  say — :she  's 
got  a  will  of  her  own,  has  Miss  Em'ly,  but  thar  ain't 
anybody  in  these  parts  that  would  n't  work  for  her 
till  they  dropped.  She  sent  for  me  last  Monday  to 
help  her  mend  her  henhouse,  and  though  I  was  puttin' 
a  new  roof  over  my  wife's  head,  I  dropped  everything 
I  had  and  went.  That  was  the  day  Mr.  Beverly  cut 
down  the  cedars." 

"So  Miss  Emily  didn't  know  of  it?" 
"She  was  in  school,  suh — you  see  she  teaches  in 
Tappahannock  from  nine  till  three,  so  Mr.  Beverly 
chose  that  time  to  sell  the  avenue  to  young  Tom 
Myers.  He  's  a  sly  man,  is  Mr.  Beverly,  for  all  his 
soft,  slow  ways,  and  if  Young  Tom  had  bsen  on  time 
he  'd  have  had  half  the  avenue  belted  before  Miss 
Em'ly  got  back  from  school.  But  he  got  in  some 
mess  or  other  at  the  store,  and  he  was  jest  hewin' 
like  thunder  at  his  sixth  cedar,  when  up  come  Miss 
Em'ly  on  that  old  white  horse  she  rides.  Good 
Lord!  I  hope  I  '11  never  see  anybody  turn  so  white 
agin  as  she  did  when  her  eyes  lighted  on  them  fallen 
trees.  *  Beverly,'  she  called  out  in  a  loud,  high  voice, 


THE  RETURN  TO  TAPPAHANNOCK      35 

'have  you  dared  to  sell  the  cedars?'  Mr.  Beverly 
looked  a  little  sick  as  if  his  stomach  had  gone  aginst 
him  of  a  sudden,  but  he  stood  right  up  on  the  trunk 
of  a  tree,  and  mumbled  something  about  presarvin* 
useless  timber  when  the  children  had  no  shoes  an* 
stockings  to  thar  feet.  Then  Miss  Em'ly  gave  him 
a  look  that  scorched  like  fire,  and  she  rode  straight 
up  to  Myers  on  her  old  horse  and  said  as  quiet  as 
death:  'Put  up  your  axe,  Tom,  I  '11  give  you  back 
your  money.  How  much  have  you  paid  him  down?' 
When  Young  Tom  looked  kind  of  sheepish  and  said: 
'a  hundred  dollars,1  I  saw  her  eyelids  flicker,  but  she 
did  n't  hesitate  an  instant.  'You  shall  have  it  within 
an  hour  on  my  word  of  honour,'  she  answered,  'can 
you  wait?'  'I  reckon  I  can  wait  all  day,  Miss,'  said 
Young  Tom — and  then  she  jumped  down  from  her 
horse,  and  givin*  me  the  bridle,  caught  up  her  skirt 
and  ran  indoors.  In  a  minute  she  came  flying  out 
agin  and  before  we  had  time  to  catch  our  breath 
she  was  ridin*  for  dear  life  back  to  town.  'You  'd 
better  go  on  with  yo'  work,'  said  Mr.  Beverly  in  his 
soft  way,  but  Young  Tom  picked  up  his  axe,  and 
sat  down  on  the  big  stump  behind  him.  'I  reckon 
I  can  take  her  word  better  'n  yours,  Mr.  Beverly,'  he 
answered,'  an'  'I  reckon  you  can,  too,  Young  Tom/ 
said  I ." 

"But  how  did  she  raise  the  money?"  inquired 
Ordway. 

"That 's  what  nobody  knows,  suh,  except  her  and 
one  other.  Some  say  she  sold  a  piece  of  her  mother's 
old  jewelry — a  locket  or  something  she  had  put  by — 


36  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

and  some  believe  still  that  she  borrowed  it  from 
Robert  Baxter  or  Jasper  Trend.  Whichever  way  it 
was,  she  came  ridin'  up  within  the  hour  on  her  old 
white  horse  with  the  notes  twisted  tight  in  her 
handkerchief.  She  was  mighty  quiet,  then,  but  when 
it  was  over,  great  Lord,  what  a  temper  she  was  in. 
I  declar'  she  would  have  struck  Mr.  Beverly  with 
the  sour  gum  twig  she  used  for  a  whip  if  I  had  n't 
slipped  in  between  'em  an'  caught  her  arm.  Then 
she  lashed  him  with  her  tongue  till  he  seemed  to 
wither  and  shrink  all  over." 

"And  served  him  right,  God  bless  her!"  said 
Ordway. 

"That 's  so,  suh,  but  Mr.  Beverly  ain't  a  bad  man — • 
he  's  jest  soft." 

"Yet  your  Miss  Emily  still  sticks  to  him,  it 
seems?" 

"  If  she  did  n't  the  farm  would  n't  hold  together  a 
week.  What  she  makes  from  teachin'  is  about  all 
they  have  to  live  on  in  my  opinion.  Last  summer, 
too,  she  started  raisin'  garden  things  an'  poultry,  an* 
she  'd  have  got  quite  a  thrivin'  business  if  she  had 
had  any  kind  of  help.  Then  in  July  she  tried  her 
hand  at  puttin'  up  preserves  and  jellies  to  send  to 
them  big  stores  in  the  North." 

Ordway  remembered  the  cheerful  authority  in  her 
voice,  the  little  cold  red  hands  that  had  offered  him 
his  supper;  and  his  heart  contracted  as  it  did  at  the 
memory  of  his  daughter  Alice,  Yet  it  was  not 
pity  alone  that  moved  him,  for  mingled  with  the 
appeal  to  his  sympathy  there  was  something  which 


THE  RETURN  TO  TAPPAHANNOCK      37 

awoke  in  him  the  bitter  agony  of  remorse.  So  the 
girl  in  the  red  cape  could  endure  poverty  such  as  this 
with  honour!  At  the  thought  his  past  sin  and  his 
present  disgrace  appeared  to  him  not  only  as  crime 
but  as  cowardliness.  He  recalled  the  angry 
manager  of  the  cotton  mills,  but  there  was  no 
longer  resentment  in  his  mind  either  against  the 
individual  or  against  society.  Instead  it  seemed  to 
him  that  all  smaller  emotions  dissolved  in  a  tender- 
ness which  placed  this  girl  and  Alice  apart  with  the 
other  good  and  inspiring  memories  of  his  life.  As 
he  walked  on  in  silence  a  little  incident  of  ten  years 
before  returned  to  his  thoughts,  and  he  remembered 
the  day  he  had  found  his  child  weeping  beside  a 
crippled  beggar  on  his  front  steps. 

When,  a  little  later,  they  reached  Tappahannock, 
the  farmer  turned  with  his  reluctant  cow  into  one 
of  the  smaller  paths  which  led  across  the  common 
on  the  edge  of  the  town.  As  it  was  still  too  early  to 
apply  for  work,  Ordway  sat  down  on  a  flat  stone 
before  an  iron  gate  and  watched  the  windows  along 
the  street  for  any  signs  of  movement  or  life  within. 
At  length  several  frowsy  Negro  maids  leaned  out 
while  the  wooden  shutters  swung  slowly  back 
against  the  walls;  then  a  milk  wagon  driven  by  a 
small  boy  clattered  noisily  round  the  corner,  and  in 
response  to  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  driver,  the  doors 
opened  hurriedly  and  the  Negro  maids  rushed,  with 
outstretched  pitchers,  down  the  gravelled  walks  to  the 
iron  gates.  Presently  an  appetising  odour  of  bacon 
reached  Ordway 's  nostrils;  and  in  the  house  across 


38  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

the  street  a  woman  with  her  hair  done  up  on  pins, 
came  to  the  window  and  began  grinding  coffee  in  a 
wooden  mill.  Not  until  eight  o'clock  did  the  town 
open  its  gates  and  settle  itself  to  the  day's  work. 

When  the  doors  of  the  warehouses  were  fastened 
back,  Ordway  turned  into  the  main  street  again, 
and  walked  slowly  downhill  until  he  came  to  the 
faded  brick  archway  where  the  group  of  men  had  sat 
smoking  the  evening  before.  Now  there  was  an  air 
of  movement  in  the  long  building  which  had  appeared 
as  mere  dim  vacancy  at  the  hour  of  sunset.  Men 
were  passing  in  and  out  of  the  brick  entrance,  from 
which  a  thin  coat  of  whitewash  was  peeling  in 
splotches;  covered  wagons  half  filled  with  tobacco 
were  standing,  unhitched,  along  the  walls;  huge  bags 
of  fresh  fertilisers  were  thrown  carelessly  in  corners; 
and  in  the  centre  of  the  great  floor,  an  old  Negro,  with 
a  birch  broom  tied  together  with  coloured  string,  was 
sweeping  into  piles  the  dried  stems  left  after  yester- 
day's sales.  As  he  swept,  a  little  cloud  of  pungent 
dust  rose  before  the  strokes  of  his  broom  and  floated 
through  the  brick  archway  out  into  the  street. 

This  morning  there  was  even  less  attention  paid  to 
Ordway 's  presence  than  there  had  been  at  the  closing 
hour.  Planters  hurried  back  and  forth  preparing  lots 
for  the  opening  sale;  a  wagon  drove  into  the  building, 
and  the  driver  got  down  over  the  muddy  wheel  and 
lifted  out  several  willow  crates  through  which  Ordway 
could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  yellow  sun-cured  leaf. 
The  old  Negro  swept  briskly,  piling  the  trash  into 
heaps  which  would  finally  be  ground  into  snuff  or 


THE  RETURN  TO  TAPPAHANNOCK       39 

used  as  a  cheap  grade  of  fertiliser.  Lean  hounds 
wandered  to  and  fro,  following  the  covered  wagons 
and  sniffing  suspiciously  at  the  loose  plants  arranged 
in  separate  lots  in  the  centre  of  the  floor. 

"Is  Baxter  here  this  morning?"  Ordway  asked 
presently  of  a  countryman  who  lounged  on  a  pile 
of  bags  near  the  archway. 

"I  reckon  you'll  find  him  in  his  office,"  replied 
the  man,  as  he  spat  lazily  out  into  the  street;  "that 
thar  's  his  door,"  he  added,  pointing  to  a  little  room 
on  the  right  of  the  entrance — "I  seed  him  go  in  an' 
I  ain't  seed  him  come  out." 

Nodding  his  thanks  for  the  information,  Ordway 
crossed  the  building  and  rapped  lightly  on  the  door. 
In  response  to  a  loud  "come  in,"  he  turned  the  knob 
and  stood  next  instant  face  to  face  with  the  genial 
giant  of  the  evening  before. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Baxter,  I  Ve  come  back 
again,"  he  said. 

"Good-morning!"  responded  Baxter,  "I  see  you 
have." 

In  the  full  daylight  Baxter  appeared  to  have 
increased  in  effect  if  not  in  quantity,  and  as  Ordway 
looked  at  him  now,  he  felt  himself  to  be  in  the  presence 
less  of  a  male  creature  than  of  an  embodied  benevolent 
impulse.  His  very  flabbiness  of  feature  added  in  a 
measure  to  the  expansive  generosity  of  mouth  and 
chin;  and  slovenly,  unwashed,  half-shaven  as  he  was, 
Baxter's  spirit  dominated  not  only  his  fellow  men,  but 
the  repelling  effect  of  his  own  unkempt  exterior. 
To  meet  his  glance  was  to  become  suddenly  intimate; 


40  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

to  hear  him  speak  was  to  feel  that  he  had  shaken 
you  by  the  hand. 

"  I  hoped  you  might  have  come  to  see  things  differ- 
ently this  morning,"  said  Ordway. 

Baxter  looked  him  over  with  his  soft  yet  penetrating 
eyes,  his  gaze  travelling  slowly  from  the  coarse  boots 
covered  with  red  clay  to  the  boyish  smile  on  the  dark, 
weatherbeaten  face. 

"You  did  not  tell  me  what  kind  of  work  you  were 
looking  for,"  he  observed  at  last.  "Do  you  want 
to  sweep  out  the  warehouse  or  to  keep  the  books?" 

Ordway  laughed.  "I  prefer  to  keep  the  books, 
but  I  can  sweep  out  the  warehouse,"  he  replied. 

"You  can — can  you?"  said  Baxter.  His  pipe, 
which  was  never  out  of  his  hand  except  when  it  was 
in  his  mouth,  began  to  turn  gray,  and  putting  it 
between  his  teeth,  he  sucked  hard  at  the  stem  for 
a  minute. 

"You're  an  educated  man,  then?" 

"I  've  been  to  college — do  you  mean  that?" 

"You  're  fit  for  a  clerk's  position?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

"Where  did  you  work  last?" 

Ordway 's  hesitation  was  barely  perceptible. 

"  I  've  been  in  business,"  he  answered. 

"  On  your  own  hook? "  inquired  Baxter. 

"Yes,  on  my  own  hook." 

"But  you  couldn't  make  a  living  at  it?" 

"No;  I  gave  it  up  for  several  reasons." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  your  reasons,  my  man," 
observed  Baxter,  drily,  "but  I  like  your  face." 


THE  RETURN  TO  TAPPAHANNOCK       41 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ordway,  and  he  laughed  again 
with  the  sparkling  gaiety  which  leaped  first  to  his 
blue  eyes. 

"And  so  you  expect  me  to  take  you  without  know- 
ing a  darn  thing  about  you?"  demanded  Baxter. 

Ordway  nodded  gravely. 

"Yes,  I  hope  that  is  what  you  will  do,"  he  answered. 

"  I  may  ask  your  name,  I  reckon,  may  n't  I? — if  you 
have  no  particular  objection." 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you  it 's  Smith,"  said  Ordway, 
with  his  gaze  on  a  huge  pamphlet  entitled  "Smith's 
Almanac"  lying  on  Baxter's  desk.  "Daniel  Smith." 

"Smith,"  repeated  Baxter.  "Well,  it  ain't  hard 
to  remember.  If  I  warn't  a  blamed  fool,  I  'd  let  you 
go,"  he  added  thoughtfully,  "but  there  ain't  much 
doubt,  I  reckon,  about  my  being  a  blamed  fool." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  with  difficulty,  and  steadying 
his  huge  body,  moved  to  the  door,  which  he  flung 
open  with  a  jerk. 

"If  you  've  made  up  your  mind  dead  sure  to  butt 
in,  you  might  as  well  begin  with  the  next  sale," 
he  said. 


CHAPTER    IV 
THE  DREAM  OF  DANIEL  SMITH 

HE  HAD  been  recommended  for  lodging  to  a  certain 
Mrs.  Twine,  and  at  five  o'clock,  when  the  day's  work 
at  Baxter's  was  over,  he  started  up  the  street  in  a 
bewildered  search  for  her  house,  which  he  had  been 
told  was  situated  immediately  beyond  the  first  turn 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill.  When  he  reached  the  corner 
there  was  no  one  in  sight  except  a  small  boy  who 
sat,  crying  loudly,  astride  a  little  whitewashed  wooden 
gate.  Beyond  the  boy  there  was  a  narrow  yard  filled 
with  partly  dried  garments  hung  on  clothes  lines, 
which  stretched  from  a  young  locust  tree  near  the 
sidewalk  to  the  front  porch,  where  a  man  with  a  red 
nose  was  reading  the  local  newspaper.  As  the  man 
with  the  red  nose  paid  no  attention  to  the  loud 
lamentations  of  the  child,  Ordway  stopped  by  the 
gate  and  inquired  sympathetically  if  he  could  be 
of  help. 

"Oh,  he  ain't  hurt,"  remarked  the  man,  throwing 
a  side  glance  over  his  paper,  "he  al'ays  yells  like  that 
when  his  Ma's  done  scrubbed  him." 

"She  's  washed  me  so  clean  that  I  feel  naked," 
howled  the  boy. 

"Well,  you  '11  get  over  that  in  a  year's  time," 
observed  Ordway  cheerfully,  "so  suppose  you  leave 

42 


THE  DREAM  OF  DANIEL  SMITH          43 

off  a  minute  now  and  show  me  the  way  to  Mrs. 
Twine's." 

At  his  request  the  boy  stopped  crying  instantly, 
and  stared  up  at  him  while  the  dirty  tearmarks  dried 
slowly  on  his  cheeks. 

"Thar  ain't  no  way,"  he  replied  solemnly,  "  'cause 
she  's  my  ma." 

"Then  jump  down  quickly  and  run  indoors  and 
tell  her  I  'd  like  to  see  her." 

"  'T  ain't  no  use.     She  won't  come." 

"Well,  go  and  ask  her.  I  was  told  to  come  here  to 
look  for  board  and  lodging." 

He  glanced  inquiringly  at  the  man  on  the  porch, 
who,  engrossed  in  the  local  paper,  was  apparently 
oblivious  of  the  conversation  at  the  gate. 

"She  won't  come  'cause  she  's  washin'  the  rest  of 
us,"  returned  the  boy,  as  he  swung  himself  to  the 
ground,  "  thar  're  six  of  us  an'  she  ain't  done  but  two. 
That  's  Lemmy  she  's  got  hold  of  now.  Can't  you 
hear  him  holler?" 

He  planted  his  feet  squarely  on  the  board  walk, 
looked  back  at  Ordway  over  his  shoulder,  and 
departed  reluctantly  with  the  message  for  his  mother. 
At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  Ordway 
had  entered  the  gate  and  sat  down  in  the  cold  wind 
on  the  front  steps,  the  door  behind  him  opened  with 
a  jar,  and  a  large,  crimson,  untidy  woman,  splashed 
with  soapsuds,  appeared  like  an  embodied  tempest 
upon  the  threshold. 

"Canty  says  you  've  come  to  look  at  the  dead 
gentleman's  room,  suh,"  she  began  in  a  high  voice, 


44  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

approaching  her  point  with  a  directness  which  lost 
none  of  its  force  because  of  the  panting  vehemence 
with  which  she  spoke. 

"Baxter  told  me  I  might  find  board  with  you," 
explained  Ordway  in  her  first  breathless  pause. 

"To  be  sure  he  may  have  the  dead  gentleman's 
room,  Mag,"  put  in  the  man  on  the  porch,  folding 
his  newspaper,  with  a  shiver,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"I  warn't  thinkin'  about  lettin*  that  room  agin'," 
said  Mrs.  Twine,  crushing  her  husband's  budding 
interference  by  the  completeness  with  which  she 
ignored  his  presence.  "  But  it 's  jest  as  well,  I  reckon, 
for  a  defenceless  married  woman  to  have  a  stranger 
in  the  house.  Though  for  the  matter  of  that,"  she 
concluded  in  a  burst  of  domestic  confidence,  "the 
woman  that  ain't  a  match  for  her  own  husband  with- 
out outside  help  ain't  deservin'  of  the  pleasure  an' 
the  blessin'  of  one."  Then  as  the  man  with  the  red 
nose  slunk  shamefacedly  into  the  passage,  she  added 
in  an  undertone  to  Ordway,  "and  now  if  you  11  jest 
step  inside,  I  '11  show  you  the  spare  room  that  I  've 
got  to  let." 

She  led  the  way  indoors,  scolding  shrilly  as  she 
passed  through  the  hall,  and  up  the  little  staircase, 
where  several  half-dressed  children  were  riding,  with 
shrieks  of  delight,  down  the  balustrade.  "You 
need  n't  think  you  've  missed  a  scrubbing  because 
company  's  come,"  she  remarked  angrily,  as  she 
stooped  to  box  the  ears  of  a  small  girl  lying  flat  on 
her  stomach  upon  the  landing.  "Such  is  my  taste 
for  cleanness,"  she  explained  to  Ordway,  "that  when 


THE  DREAM  OF  DANIEL  SMITH          45 

my  hands  once  tech  the  soap  it 's  as  much  as  I  can  do 
to  keep  'em  back  from  rubbin'  the  skin  off.  Thar  're 
times  even  when  the  taste  is  so  ragin'  in  my  breast 
that  I  can  hardly  wait  for  Saturday  night  to  come 
around.  Yet  I  ain't  no  friend  to  license  whether 
it  be  in  whiskey  or  in  soap  an*  water.  Temperance 
is  my  passion  and  that  's  why,  I  suppose,  I  came  to 
marry  a  drunkard." 

With  this  tragic  confession,  uttered  in  a  matter 
of  fact  manner,  she  produced  a  key  from  the  pocket 
of  her  blue  gingham  apron,  and  ushered  Ordway  into 
a  small,  poorly  furnished  room,  which  overlooked 
the  front  street  and  the  two  bared  locust  trees  in  the 
yard. 

"I  kin  let  you  have  this  at  three  dollars  a  week," 
she  said,  "provided  you  're  content  to  do  yo'  own 
reachin'  at  the  table.  Thar  ain't  any  servant  now 
except  a  twelve  year  old  darkey." 

"Yes,  I  11  take  it,"  returned  Ordway,  almost 
cheerfully;  and  when  he  had  agreed  definitely  as  to 
the  amount  of  service  he  was  to  receive,  he  closed 
the  creaking  door  behind  her,  and  looked  about 
the  crudely  furnished  apartment  with  a  sense  of 
ownership  such  as  he  had  not  felt  since  the  afternoon 
upon  which  he  had  stood  in  his  wife's  sitting-room 
awaiting  his  arrest.  He  thought  of  the  Florentine 
gilding,  the  rich  curtains,  the  long  mirrors,  the 
famous  bronze  Mercury  and  the  Corot  landscape 
with  the  sunlight  upon  it — and  then  of  the  terrible 
oppression  in  which  these  familiar  objects  had  seemed 
closing  in  upon  him  and  smothering  him  into 


46  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

unconsciousness.  The  weight  was  lifted  now,  and  he 
breathed  freely  while  his  gaze  rested  on  the  com- 
mon pine  bedstead,  the  scarred  washstand,  with  the 
broken  pitcher,  the  whitewashed  walls,  the  cane 
chairs,  the  rusted  scuttle,  filled  with  cheap  coal, 
and  the  unpainted  table  holding  a  glass  lamp  with 
a  smoked  chimney.  From  the  hall  below  he  could 
hear  the  scolding  voice  of  Mrs.  Twine,  but 
neither  the  shrill  sound  nor  the  poor  room  pro- 
duced in  him  the  smothered  anguish  he  felt  even 
to-day  at  the  memory  of  the  Corot  landscape  bathed 
in  sunlight. 

An  hour  later,  when  he  came  upstairs  again  as  an 
escape  from  the  disorder  of  Mrs.  Twine's  supper 
table,  he  started  a  feeble  blaze  in  the  grate,  which 
was  half  full  of  ashes,  and  after  lighting  the  glass 
lamp,  sat  watching  the  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro 
on  the  whitewashed  wall.  His  single  possession, 
a  photograph  of  his  wife  taken  with  her  two  children, 
rested  against  the  brick  chimney  piece,  and  as  he 
looked  at  it  now  it  seemed  to  stand  in  no  closer 
relationship  to  his  life  than  did  one  of  the  brilliant 
chromos  he  had  observed  ornamenting  the  walls  of 
Mrs.  Twine's  dining-room.  His  old  life,  indeed, 
appeared  remote,  artificial,  conjured  from  unrealities 
— it  was  as  if  he  had  moved  lightly  upon  the  painted 
surface  of  things,  until  at  last  a  false  step  had  broken 
through  the  thin  covering  and  he  had  plunged  in  a 
single  instant  against  the  concrete  actuality.  The 
shock  had  stunned  him,  yet  he  realised  now  that  he 
could  never  return  to  his  old  sheltered  outlook — to 


THE  DREAM  OF  DANIEL  SMITH          47 

his  pleasant  fiction — for  he  had  come  too  close  to 
experience  ever  to  be  satisfied  again  with  falsehood. 

The  photograph  upon  the  mantel  was  the  single 
remaining  link  which  held  him  to-day  to  his  past 
life — to  his  forfeited  identity.  In  the  exquisite, 
still  virgin  face  of  his  wife,  draped  for  effect  in  a  scarf 
of  Italian  lace — he  saw  embodied  the  one  sacred 
memory  to  which  as  Daniel  Smith  he  might  still 
cling  with  honour.  The  face  was  perfect,  the  expres- 
sion of  motherhood  which  bent,  flamelike,  over  the 
small  boy  and  girl,  was  perfect  also ;  and  the  pure  soul 
of  the  woman  seemed  to  him  to  have  formed  both 
face  and  expression  after  its  own  divine  image.  In 
the  photograph,  as  in  his  memory,  her  beauty  was 
touched  always  by  some  rare  quality  of  remoteness  r 
as  if  no  merely  human  conditions  could  ever  entirely 
compass  so  ethereal  a  spirit.  The  passion  which  had 
rocked  his  soul  had  left  her  serenity  unshaken,  and 
even  sorrow  had  been  powerless  to  leave  its  impress 
or  disfigurement  upon  her  features. 

As  the  shadows  flickered  out  on  the  walls,  the  room 
grew  suddenly  colder.  Rising  he  replenished  the 
fire,  and  then  going  over  to  the  bed,  he  flung  himself, 
still  dressed,  under  the  patchwork  quilt  from  which 
the  wool  was  protruding  in  places.  He  was  thinking 
of  the  morning  eighteen  years  ago  when  he  had  first 
seen  her  as  she  came,  with  several  girl  companions,  out 
of  the  old  church  in  the  little  town  of  Botetourt.  It 
was  a  Christmas  during  his  last  year  at  Harvard, 
when  moved  by  a  sudden  interest  in  his  Southern 
associations,  he  had  gone  down  for  two  days  to  his 


48  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

childhood's  home  in  Virginia.  Though  the  place  was 
falling  gradually  to  ruin,  his  maiden  great-aunt  still 
lived  there  in  a  kind  of  luxurious  poverty ;  and  at  the 
sight  of  her  false  halo  of  gray  curls,  he  had  remem- 
bered, almost  with  a  start  of  surprise,  the  morning 
when  he  had  seen  the  convict  at  the  little  wayside 
station.  The  station,  the  country,  the  muddy  roads, 
and  even  the  town  of  Botetourt  were  unchanged,  but 
he  himself  belonged  now  to  another  and  what  he  felt 
to  be  a  larger  world.  Every  thing  had  appeared  provin- 
cial and  amusing  to  his  eyes — until  as  he  passed  on 
Christmas  morning  by  the  quaint  old  churchyard,  he 
had  seen  Lydia  Preston  standing  in  the  sunshine  amid 
the  crumbling  tombstones  of  several  hundred  years. 
Under  the  long  black  feather  in  her  hat,  her  charming 
eyes  had  dwelt  on  him  kindly  for  a  minute,  and  in  that 
minute  it  had  seemed  to  him  that  the  racial  ideal 
slumbering  in  his  brain  had  responded  quickly  to 
his  startled  blood.  Afterward  they  had  told  him  that 
she  was  only  nineteen,  a  Southern  beauty  of  great 
promise,  and  the  daughter  of  old  Adam  Preston,  who 
had  made  and  lost  a  fortune  in  the  last  ten  years. 
But  these  details  seemed  to  him  to  have  no  relation 
to  the  face  he  had  seen  under  the  black  feather  against 
the  ivy-covered  walls  of  the  old  church.  The  next 
evening  they  had  danced  together  at  a  ball;  he  had 
carried  her  fan,  a  trivial  affair  of  lace  and  satin,  away 
in  his  pocket,  and  ten  days  later  he  had  returned, 
flushed  with  passion,  to  finish  his  course  at  Harvard. 
Love  had  put  wings  to  his  ambition;  the  following 
year  he  had  stood  at  the  head  of  his  class,  and  before 


THE  DREAM  OF  DANIEL  SMITH          49 

the  summer  was  over  he  had  married  her  and  started 
brilliantly  in  his  career.  There  had  been  only  success 
in  the  beginning.  When  had  the  tide  turned  so 
suddenly?  he  wondered,  and  when  had  he  begun  to 
drift  into  the  great  waters  where  men  are  washed 
down  and  lost? 

Lying  on  the  bed  now  in  the  firelight,  he  shivered 
and  drew  the  quilt  closer  about  his  knees.  She  had 
loved  beauty,  riches,  dignity,  religion — she  had  loved 
her  children  when  they  came;  but  had  she  ever 
really  loved  him — the  Daniel  Ordway  whom  she  had 
married?  Were  all  pure  women  as  passionless — as 
utterly  detached — as  she  had  shown  herself  to  him 
from  the  beginning?  And  was  her  coldness,  as  he 
had  always  believed,  but  the  outward  body  of  that 
spiritual  grace  for  which  he  had  loved  her?  He  had 
lavished  abundantly  out  of  his'  stormy  nature ;  he  had 
spent  his  immortal  soul  upon  her  in  desperate  deter- 
mination to  possess  her  utterly  at  her  own  price; 
and  yet  had  she  ever  belonged  to  him,  he  questioned 
now,  even  in  the  supreme  hours  of  their  deepest 
union?  Had  her  very  innocence  shut  him  out  from 
her  soul  forever? 

In  the  end  the  little  world  had  closed  over  them 
both;  he  had  felt  himself  slipping  further — further — 
had  made  frantic  efforts  to  regain  his  footing;  and 
had  gone  down  hopelessly  at  last.  Those  terrible 
years  before  his  arrest  crowded  like  minutes  into  his 
brain,  and  he  knew  now  that  there  had  been  relief — 
comfort — almost  tranquillity  in  his  life  in  prison. 
The  strain  was  lifted  at  last,  and  the  days  when  he 


So  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

had  moved  in  dull  hope  or  acute  despair  through 
the  crowd  in  Wall  Street  were  over  forever.  To 
hold  a  place  in  the  little  world  one  needed  great 
wealth;  and  it  had  seemed  to  him  in  the  time  of 
temptation  that  this  wealth  was  not  a  fugitive 
possession,  but  an  inherent  necessity  —  a  thing 
which  belonged  to  the  inner  structure  of  Lydia's 
nature. 

A  shudder  ran  over  him,  while  he  drew  a  convulsive 
breath  like  one  in  physical  pain.  The  slow  minutes 
in  which  he  had  waited  for  a  rise  in  the  market 
were  still  ticking  in  agony  somewhere  in  his  brain. 
Time  moved  on,  yet  those  minutes  never  passed — his 
memory  had  become  like  the  face  of  a  clock  where 
the  hands  pointed,  motionless,  day  or  night,  to  the 
same  hour.  Then  hours,  days,  weeks,  months,  years, 
when  he  lived  with  ruin  in  his  thoughts  and  the  sound 
of  merriment,  which  was  like  the  pipe  of  hollow  flutes, 
in  his  ears.  At  the  end  it  came  almost  suddenly — 
the  blow  for  which  he  had  waited,  the  blow  which 
brought  something  akin  to  relief  because  it  ended  the 
quivering  torture  of  his  suspense,  and  compelled,  for 
the  hour  at  least,  decisive  action.  He  had  known 
that  before  evening  he  would  be  under  arrest,  and 
yet  he  had  walked  slowly  along  Fifth  Avenue  from 
his  office  to  his  home;  he  recalled  now  that  he  had 
even  joked  with  a  club  wit,  who  had  stopped  him  at 
the  corner  to  divulge  the  latest  bit  of  gossip.  At 
the  very  instant  when  he  felt  himself  to  be  approach- 
ing ruin  in  his  house,  he  remembered  that  he  had 
complained  a  little  irritably  of  the  breaking  wrapper 


THE  DREAM  OF  DANIEL  SMITH  51 

of  his  cigar.  Yet  he  was  thinking  then  that  he  must 
reach  his  home  in  time  to  prevent  his  wife  from 
keeping  a  luncheon  engagement,  of  which  she  had 
spoken  to  him  at  breakfast ;  and  ten  minutes  later  it 
was  with  a  sensation  of  relief  that  he  met  the 
blank  face  of  his  butler  in  the  hall.  On  the 
staircase  his  daughter  ran  after  him,  her  short 
white,  beruffled  skirts  standing  out  stiffly  like  the 
skirts  of  a  ballet  dancer.  She  was  taking  her  music 
lesson,  she  cried  out,  and  she  called  to  him  to  come 
into  the  music  room  and  hear  how  wonderfully  she 
could  run  her  scales!  Her  blue  eyes,  which  were 
his  eyes  in  a  child's  face,  looked  joyously  up  at  him 
from  under  the  thatch  of  dark  curls  which  she  had 
inherited  from  him,  not  from  her  blond  mother. 

"  Not  now,  Alice,"  he  answered,  almost  impatiently, 
"not  now — I  will  come  a  little  later." 

Then  she  darted  back,  and  the  stumbling  music 
preceded  him  up  the  staircase  to  the  door  of  his 
wife's  dressing-room.  When  he  entered  Lydia  was 
standing  before  her  mirror,  fastening  a  spotted 
veil  with  a  diamond  butterfly  at  the  back  of  her 
blond  head;  and  as  she  turned  smilingly  toward 
him,  he  put  out  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of  irri- 
tation. 

"Take  that  veil  off,  Lydia,  I  can't  see  you  for 
the  spots,"  he  said. 

Complaisant  always,  she  unfastened  the  diamond 
butterfly  without  a  word,  and  taking  off  the  veil, 
flung  it  carelessly  across  the  golden-topped  bottles 
upon  her  dressing-table. 


52  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"You  look  ill,"  she  said  with  her  charming  smile; 
"shall  I  ring  for  Marie  to  bring  you  whiskey?" 

At  her  words  he  turned  from  her,  driven  by  a  tor- 
ment of  pity  which  caused  his  voice  to  sound  harsh 
and  constrained  in  his  own  ears. 

"No — no — don't  put  that  on  again,"  he  protested, 
for  while  she  waited  she  had  taken  up  the  spotted 
veil  and  the  diamond  pin. 

'  Something  in  his  tone  startled  her  into  attention, 
and  moving  a  step  forward,  she  stood  before  him  on  a 
white  bearskin  rug.  Her  face  had  hardly  changed, 
yet  in  some  way  she  seemed  to  have  put  him  at  a 
distance,  and  he  felt  all  at  once  that  he  had  never 
known  her. 

From  the  room  downstairs  he  heard  Alice's  music 
lesson  go  on  at  broken  intervals,  the  uncertain  scales 
she  ran  now  stopping,  now  beginning  violently  again. 
The  sound  wrought  suddenly  on  his  nerves  like  anger, 
and  he  felt  that  his  voice  was  querulous  in  spite  of 
the  torment  of  pity  at  his  heart. 

"There's  no  use  putting  on  your  veil,"  he  said, 
"  a  warrant  is  out  for  my  arrest  and  I  must  wait  here 
till  it  comes." 


His  memory  stopped  now,  as  if  it  had  snapped 
suddenly  beneath  the  strain.  After  this  there  was  a 
mere  blank  of  existence  upon  which  people  and  objects 
moved  without  visible  impression.  From  that  minute 
to  this  one  appeared  so  short  a  time  that  he  started 
up  half  expecting  to  hear  Alice's  scales  filling  Mrs. 


THE   DREAM  OF  DANIEL  SMITH         53 

Twine's  empty  lodgings.  Then  his  eyes  fell  on.  the 
whitewashed  walls,  the  smoking  lamp,  the  bare  table, 
and  the  little  square  window  with  the  branches  of 
the  locust  tree  frosted  against  the  pane. 

Rising  from  the  bed,  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  pressed 
his  quivering  face  to  the  patchwork  quilt. 

"  Give  me  a  new  life,  O  God — give  me  a  new  life! " 


CHAPTER  V 
AT  TAPPAHANNOCK 

AFTER  a  sleepless  night,  he  rose  as  soon  as  the  dawn 
had  broken,  and  sitting  down  before  the  pine  table 
wrote  a  letter  to  Lydia,  on  a  sheet  of  paper  which 
had  evidently  been  left  in  the  drawer  by  the  former 
lodger.  "It  isn't  likely  that  you  '11  ever  want  me," 
he  added  at  the  end,  "but  if  you  should  happen  to, 
remember  that  I  am  yours,  as  I  have  always  been,  for 
whatever  I  am  worth."  When  he  had  sealed  the 
envelope  and  written  her  name  above  that  of  the 
town  of  Botetourt,  he  put  it  into  his  pocket  and  went 
down  to  the  dining-room,  where  he  found  Mrs.  Twine 
pouring  steaming  coffee  into  a  row  of  broken  cups. 
A  little  mulatto  girl,  with  her  hair  plaited  in  a  dozen 
fine  braids,  was  placing  a  dish  of  fried  bacon  at  one 
end  of  the  walnut-coloured  oil-cloth  on  the  table, 
around  which  the  six  children,  already  clothed  and 
hungry,  were  beating  an  impatient  tattoo  with  pewter 
spoons.  Bill  Twine,  the  father  of  the  family,  was 
evidently  sleeping  off  a  drunken  headache — a  weak- 
ness which  appeared  to  afford  his  wife  endless 
material  for  admonition  and  philosophy. 

"Thar  now,  Canty,"  she  was  remarking  to  her  son, 
"yof  po'  daddy  may  not  be  anything  to  be  proud  of 
as  a  man,  but  I  reckon  he  's  as  big  an  example  as 

54 


AT  TAPPAHANNOCK  55 

you  11  ever  see.  He  's  had  sermons  p'inted  at  him 
from  the  pulpit ;  they  've  took  him  up  twice  to  the 
police  court,  an'  if  you  '11  believe  me,  suh,"  she  added 
with  a  kind  of  outraged  pride  to  Ordway,  "thar's 
been  a  time  when  they  've  had  out  the  whole  fire 
department  to  protect  me." 

The  coffee  though  poor  was  hot,  and  while  Ordway 
drank  it,  he  listened  with  an  attention  not  unmixed 
with  sympathy  to  Mrs.  Twine's  continuous  flow  of 
speech.  She  was  coarse  and  shrewish  and  unshapely, 
but  his  judgment  was  softened  by  the  marks  of  anxious 
thought  on  her  forehead  and  the  disfigurements  of 
honest  labour  on  her  hands.  Any  toil  appeared  to 
him  now  to  be  invested  with  peculiar  dignity;  and 
he  felt,  sitting  there  at  her  slovenly  breakfast  table, 
that  he  was  closer  to  the  enduring  heart  of  humanity 
than  he  had  been  among  the  shallow  refinements  of 
his  past  life.  Mrs.  Twine  was  unpleasant,  but  at 
her  worst  he  felt  her  to  be  the  real  thing. 

"Not  that  I  'm  blamin'  Bill,  suh,  as  much  as  some 
folks,"  she  proceeded  charitably,  while  she  helped 
her  youngest  child  to  gravy,  "for  it  made  me  down- 
right sick  myself  to  hear  them  carryin'  on  over  his 
beatin'  his  own  wife  jest  as  much  as  if  he  'd  been 
beatin'  somebody  else's.  An'  I  ain't  one,  when  it 
comes  to  that,  to  put  up  with  a  white-livered,  knock- 
kneed,  pulin'  sort  of  a  critter,  as  I  told  the  Jedge 
a-settin'  upon  his  bench.  When  a  woman  is  obleeged 
to  take  a  strappin'  thar  's  some  real  satisfaction  in 
her  feelin'  that  she  takes  it  from  a  man — an*  the 
kind  that  would  lay  on  softly  with  never  a  broken  head 


56  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

to  show  for  it — well,  he  ain't  the  kind,  suh,  that  I  could 
have  helt  in  any  respect  an'  honour.  And  as  to  that, 
as  I  said  to  'em  right  then  an*  thar,  take  the  manly 
health  an*  spirit  out  o'  Bill,  an'  he  's  jest  about  as 
decent  an*  law  abidin'  as  the  rest.  Why,  when  he 
was  laid  up  with  malaria,  he  never  so  much  as  rized 
his  hand  agin  me,  an'  it  '11  be  my  belief  untwel  my 
dyin'  day  that  chills  an*  fever  will  keep  a  man  moral 
when  all  the  sermons  sence  Moses  will  leave  him 
unteched.  Feed  him  low  an*  work  him  hard,  an' 
you  kin  make  a  saint  out  of  most  any  male  critter, 
that 's  my  way  of  thinkin'. " 

While  she  talked  she  was  busily  selecting  the 
choicest  bit  of  bacon  for  Bill's  plate,  and  as  Ordway 
left  the  house  a  little  later,  he  saw  her  toiling  up  the 
staircase  with  her  husband's  breakfast  on  a  tin  tray 
in  her  hands. 

"  If  you  think  I  'rn  goin'  to  set  an*  wait  all  day  for 
you  to  get  out  o'  bed,  you  've  jest  about  clean  lost 
yo'  wits,  Bill  Twine,"  she  remarked  in  furious  tones, 
as  she  flung  open  a  door  on  the  landing  above. 

Out  of  doors  Ordway  found  that  the  wind  had  died 
down,  though  a  sharp  edge  of  frost  was  still  in  the  air. 
The  movement  of  the  day  had  already  begun;  and 
as  he  passed  the  big  house  on  the  brow  of  the  hill 
he  saw  a  pretty  girl,  with  her  hair  tied  back  with  a 
velvet  ribbon,  run  along  the  gravelled  walk  to  meet  the 
postman  at  the  gate.  A  little  farther,  when  he  had 
reached  the  corner,  he  turned  back  to  hand  his  letter 
to  the  postman,  and  found  to  his  surprise  that  the 
pretty  girl  was  still  gazing  after  him.  No  possible 


AT  TAPPAHANNOCK  57 

interest  could  attach  to  her  in  his  thoughts ;  and  with 
a  careless  acknowledgment  of  her  beauty,  she  faded 
from  his  consciousness  as  rapidly  as  if  she  had  been 
a  ray  of  sunshine  which  he  had  admired  as  he  passed 
along.  Then  as  he  turned  into  the  main  street  at 
the  corner,  he  saw  that  Emily  Brooke  was  riding 
slowly  up  the  hill  on  her  old  white  horse.  She  still 
wore  her  red  cape,  which  fell  over  the  saddle  on  one 
side,  and  completely  hid  the  short  riding-skirt  beneath. 
On  her  head  there  was  a  small  knitted  Tam-o'-shanter 
cap,  and  this,  with  the  easy  freedom  of  her  seat  in 
the  saddle,  gave  her  an  air  which  was  gallant  rather 
than  graceful.  The  more  feminine  adjective  hardly 
seemed  to  apply  to  her  at  the  moment;  she  looked 
brave,  strong,  buoyant,  a  creature  that  had  not  as 
yet  become  aware  of  its  sex.  Yet  she  was  older,  he 
discovered  now,  than  he  had  at  first  imagined  her  to 
be.  In  the  barn  he  had  supposed  her  age  to  be  not 
more  than  twenty  years;  seen  in  the  morning  light 
it  was  impossible  to  decide  whether  she  was  a  year 
younger  or  ten  years  older  than  he  had  believed. 
The  radiant  energy  in  her  look  belonged,  after  all, 
less  to  the  accident  of  youth  than  to  some  enduring 
quality  of  spirit. 

As  she  neared  him,  she  looked  up  from  her  horse's 
neck,  rested  her  eyes  upon  him  for  an  instant,  and 
smiled  brightly,  much  as  a  charming  boy  might  have 
done.  Then,  just  as  she  was  about  to  pass  on,  the 
girth  of  her  saddle  slipped  under  her,  and  she  was 
thrown  lightly  to  the  ground,  while  the  old  horse 
stopped  and  stood  perfectly  motionless  above  her. 


58  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"My  skirt  has  caught  in  the  stirrup,"  she  said  to 
Ordway,  and  while  he  bent  to  release  her,  he  noticed 
that  she  clung,  not  to  his  arm,  but  to  the  neck  of  the 
horse  for  support. 

To  his  surprise  there  was  neither  embarrassment 
nor  amusement  in  her  voice.  She  spoke  with  the 
cool  authority  which  had  impressed  him  during  the 
incident  of  the  ram's  attack  upon  "Sis  Mehitable." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  quite  safe  yet,"  he  said,  after  he 
had  drawn  the  rotten  girth  as  tight  as  he  dared.  "  It 
looks  as  if  it  wouldn't  last,  you  see." 

"Well,  I  dare  say,  it  may  be  excused  after  forty 
years  of  service,"  she  returned,  smiling. 

"What?  this  saddle?  It  does  look  a  little  quaint 
when  one  examines  it." 

"Oh,  it's  been  repaired,  but  even  then  one  must 
forgive  an  old  servant  for  growing  decrepit." 

"Then  you  '11  ride  it  again?"  he  asked,  seeing  that 
she  was  about  to  mount. 

"Of  course — this  isn't  my  first  tumble — but  Major 
expects  them  now  and  he  knows  how  to  behave.  So 
do  I,"  she  added,  laughing,  "you  see  it  doesn't  take 
me  by  surprise." 

"Yes,  I  see  it  does  n't,"  he  answered  gaily. 

"Then  if  you  chance  to  be  about  the  next  time  it 
happens,  I  hope  it  won't  disturb  you  either,"  she 
remarked,  as  she  rode  up  the  hill. 

The  meeting  lingered  in  Ordway 's  mind  with  a 
freshness  which  was  associated  less  with  the  incident 
itself  than  with  some  vivid  quality  in  the  appearance 
of  the  girl.  Her  face,  her  voice,  her  carriage — even 


AT  TAPPAHANNOCK  59 

the  little  brown  curls  blowing  on  her  temples,  all 
united  in  his  thoughts  to  form  a  memory  in  which 
Alice  appeared  to  hold  a  place.  Why  should  this 
country  girl,  he  wondered,  bring  back  to  him  so 
clearly  the  figure  of  his  daughter? 

But  there  was  no  room  for  a  memory  in  his  life 
just  now,  and  by  the  time  he  reached  Baxter's  Ware- 
house, he  had  forgotten  the  interest  aroused  in  him 
a  moment  before.  Baxter  had  not  yet  appeared  in 
his  office,  but  two  men,  belonging  evidently  to  the 
labouring  class,  were  talking  together  under  the  brick 
archway.  When  Ordway  joined  them  they  did  not 
interrupt  their  conversation,  which  he  found,  after 
a  minute,  to  concern  the  domestic  and  financial 
troubles  of  the  one  whom  he  judged  to  be  the  poorer 
of  the  two.  He  was  a  meanly  clad,  wretched  looking 
workman,  with  a  shock  of  uncombed  sandy  hair, 
a  cowed  manner,  and  the  expression  of  one  who  has 
been  beaten  into  apathy  rather  than  into  submission. 
A  sordid  pathos  in  his  voice  and  figure  brought 
Ordway  a  step  closer  to  his  side,  and  after  a  moment's 
careless  attention,  he  found  his  mind  adjusting  itself 
to  the  small  financial  problems  in  which  the  man 
had  become  entangled.  The  workman  had  been 
forced  to  borrow  upon  his  pathetic  personal  securities ; 
and  in  meeting  from  year  to  year  the  exorbitant  rate 
of  interest,  he  had  paid  back  several  times  the  sum 
of  the  original  debt.  Now  his  wife  was  ill,  with  an 
incurable  cancer;  he  had  no  hope,  as  he  advanced 
beyond  middle  age,  of  any  increase  in  his  earning 
capacity,  and  the  debt  under  which  he  had  struggled 


60  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

so  long  had  become  at  the  end  an  intolerable  burden. 
His  wife  had  begged  him  to  consult  a  lawyer — but 
who,  he  questioned  doggedly,  would  take  an  interest 
in  him  since  he  had  no  money  for  a  fee?  He  was 
afraid  of  lawyers  anyway,  for  he  could  give  you  a 
hundred  cases  where  they  had  stood  banded  together 
against  the  poor. 

As  Ordway  listened  to  the  story,  he  felt  for  an 
instant  a  return  of  his  youthful  enthusiasm,  and 
standing  there  amid  the  tobacco  stems  in  Baxter's 
warehouse,  he  remembered  a  great  flour  trust  from 
which  he  had  withdrawn  because  it  seemed  to  him 
to  bear  unjustly  upon  the  small,  isolated  farmers. 
Beyond  this  he  went  back  still  further  to  his  college 
days,  when  during  his  vacation,  he  had  read  Virginia 
law  in  the  office  of  his  uncle,  Richard  Ordway,  in  the 
town  of  Botetourt.  He  could  see  the  shining  rows 
of  legal  volumes  in  the  walnut  bookcases,  the  engrav- 
ing of  Latane's  Burial,  framed  in  black  wood  above 
the  mantel,  and  against  this  background  the  silent, 
gray  haired,  self-righteous  old  man  so  like  his  father. 
Through  the  window,  he  could  see  still  the  sparrows 
that  built  in  the  ivied  walls  of  the  old  church. 

With  a  start  he  came  back  to  the  workman,  who 
was  unfolding  his  troubles  in  an  abandon  of  misery 
under  the  archway. 

"  If  you  '11  talk  things  over  with  me  to-night  when 
we  get  through  work,  I  think  I  may  be  able 
to  straighten  them  out  for  you,"  he  said. 

The  man  stared  at  him  out  of  his  dogged  eyes  with 
a  helpless  incredulity. 


AT  TAPPAHANNOCK  61 

11  But  I  ain't  got  any  money,"  he  responded  sullenly, 
as  if  driven  to  the  defensive. 

"Well,  we  11  see,"  said  Ordway,  "  I  don't  want  your 
money," 

"You  want  something,  though — my  money  or  my 
vote,  and  I  ain't  got  either." 

Ordway  laughed  shortly.  "I? — oh,  I  just  want 
the  fun,"  he  answered. 

The  beginning  was  trivial  enough,  the  case  sordid, 
and  the  client  only  a  dull-witted  labourer;  but  to 
Ordway  it  came  as  the  commencement  of  the  new 
life  for  which  he  had  prayed — the  life  which  would 
find  its  centre  not  in  possession,  but  in  surrender, 
which  would  seek  as  its  achievement  not  personal 
happiness,  but  the  joy  of  service. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  PRETTY  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MAYOR 

THE  pretty  girl  whom  Ordway  had  seen  on  the 
gravelled  walk  was  Milly  Trend,  the  only  child  of  the 
Mayor  of  Tappahannock.  People  said  of  Jasper 
Trend  that  his  daughter  was  the  one  soft  spot  in  a 
heart  that  was  otherwise  as  small  and  hard  as  a 
silver  dollar,  and  of  Milly  Trend  the  same  people 
said — well,  that  she  was  pretty.  Her  prettiness 
was  invariably  the  first  and  the  last  thing  to  be 
mentioned  about  her.  Whatever  sterner  qualities 
she  may  have  possessed  were  utterly  obscured  by 
an  exterior  which  made  one  think  of  peach  blossoms 
and  spring  sunshine.  She  had  a  bunch  of  curls  the 
colour  of  ripe  corn,  which  she  wore  tied  back  from 
her  neck  with  a  velvet  ribbon ;  her  eyes  were  the  eyes 
of  a  baby ;  and  her  mouth  had  an  adorable  little  trick 
of  closing  over  her  small,  though  slightly  prominent 
teeth.  The  one  flaw  in  her  face  was  this  projection 
of  her  teeth,  and  when  she  looked  at  herself  in 
the  glass  it  was  her  habit  to  bite  her  lips  closely 
together  until  the  irregular  ivory  line  was  lost.  It 
was  this  .fault,  perhaps,  which  kept  her  prettiness, 
though  it  was  superlative  in  its  own  degree,  from 
ever  rising  to  the  height  of  beauty.  In  Milly 's 
opinion  it  had  meant  the  difference  between  the 

62 


THE  PRETTY  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MAYOR    63 

glory  of  a  world- wide  reputation  and  the  lesser  honour 
of  reigning  as  the  acknowledged  belle  of  Tappa- 
hannock.  She  remembered  that  the  magnificent 
manager  of  a  theatrical  company,  a  gentleman  who* 
wore  a  fur-lined  coat  and  a  top  hat  all  day  long,  had 
almost  lost  his  train  while  he  stopped  to  look  back 
at  her  on  the  crowded  platform  of  the  station.  Her 
heart  had  beat  quickly  at  the  tribute,  yet  even  in 
that  dazzling  minute  she  had  felt  a  desperate  certainty 
that  her  single  imperfection  would  decide  her  future. 
But  for  her  teeth,  she  was  convinced  to-day,  that  he- 
might  have  returned. 

If  a  woman  cannot  be  a  heroine  in  reality,  perhaps 
the  next  best  thing  is  to  look  as  if  she  might  have 
been  one  in  the  age  of  romance;  and  this  was  what 
Milly  Trend's  appearance  suggested  to  perfection. 
Her  manner  of  dressing,  the  black  velvet  ribbon 
on  her  flaxen  curls,  her  wide  white  collars  open  at 
her  soft  throat,  her  floating  sky-blue  sashes  and  the 
delicate  peach  bloom  of  her  cheeks  and  lips — all 
these  combined  to  produce  a  poetic  atmosphere  about 
an  exceedingly  poetic  little  figure.  Being  plain  she 
would  probably  have  made  currant  jelly  for  her 
pastor,  and  have  taught  sedately  in  the  infant  class, 
in  Sunday  school :  being  pretty  she  read  extravagant 
romances  and  dreamed  strange  adventures  of  fasci- 
nating highwaymen  on  lonely  roads. 

But  many  a  woman  who  has  dreamed  of  a  highway- 
man at  eighteen  has  compromised  with  a  bank  clerk 
at  twenty-two.  Even  at  Tappahannock — the  veriest 
prose  piece  of  a  town — romance  might  sometimes 


64  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

bud  and  blossom,  though  it  usually  brought  nothing 
more  dangerous  than  respectability  to  fruit.  Milly 
had  read  Longfellow  and  Lucille,  and  her  heroic  ideal 
had  been  taken  bodily  from  one  of  Bulwer's  novels. 
.She  had  played  the  graceful  part  of  heroine  in  a 
hundred  imaginary  dramas ;  yet  in  actual  life  she  had 
been  engaged  for  two  years  to  a  sandy-haired,  freckled 
face  young  fellow,  who  chewed  tobacco,  and  bought 
the  dry  leaf  in  lots  for  a  factory  in  Richmond.  From 
romance  to  reality  is  a  hard  distance,  and  the  most 
passionate  dreamer  is  often  the  patient  drudge  of 
domestic  service. 

And  yet  even  to-day  Milly  was  not  without  secret 
misgivings  as  to  the  wisdom  of  her  choice.  She  knew 
he  was  not  her  hero,  but  in  her  short  visits  to  larger 
cities  she  had  met  no  one  who  had  come  nearer 
her  ideal  lover.  To  be  sure  she  had  seen  this  ideal, 
in  highly  coloured  glimpses,  upon  the  stage — though 
these  gallant  gentlemen  in  trunks  had  never  so  much 
as  condescended  to  glance  across  the  foot-lights  to 
the  little  girl  in  the  dark  third  row  of  the  balcony. 
Then,  too,  all  the  ladies  upon  the  stage  were  beauti- 
ful enough  for  any  hero,  and  just  here  she  was  apt  to 
remember  dismally  the  fatal  projection  of  her  teeth. 

So,  perhaps,  after  all,  Harry  Banks  was  as  near 
Olympus  as  she  could  hope  to  approach ;  and  there  was 
a  mild  consolation  in  the  thought  that  there  was  prob- 
ably more  sentiment  in  the  inner  than  in  t  he  outward 
man.  Whatever  came  of  it,  she  had  learned  that  in 
a  prose  age  it  is  safer  to  think  only  in  prose. 

On   the  morning   upon  which   Ordway   had   first 


THE  PRETTY  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MAYOR    65 

passed  her  gate,  she  had  left  the  breakfast  table  at 
the  postman's  call,  and  had  run  down  the  gravelled 
walk  to  receive  a  letter  from  Mr.  Banks,  who  was  off 
on  a  short  business  trip  for  his  firm.  With  the  letter 
in  her  hand  she  had  turned  to  find  Ordway's  blue 
eyes  fixed  in  careless  admiration  upon  her  figure ;  and 
for  one  breathless  instant  she  had  felt  her  insatiable 
dream  rise  again  and  clutch  at  her  heart.  Some  subtle 
distinction  in  his  appearance — an  unlikeness  to  the 
masculine  portion  of  Tappahannock — had  caught 
her  eye  in  spite  of  his  common  and  ill-fitting  clothes. 
Though  she  had  known  few  men  of  his  class,  the 
sensitive  perceptions  of  the  girl  had  made  her  instantly 
aware  of  the  difference  between  him  and  Harry  Banks. 
For  a  moment  her  extravagant  fancy  dwelt  on  his 
figure — on  this  distinction  which  she  had  noticed, 
on  his  square  dark  face  and  the  singular  effect  of  his 
bright  blue  eyes.  Then  turning  back  in  the  yard,  she 
went  slowly  up  the  gravelled  walk,  while  she  read  with 
a  vague  feeling  of  disappointment  the  love  letter  writ- 
ten laboriously  by  Mr.  Banks.  It  was,  doubtless,  but 
the  average  love  letter  of  the  average  plain  young  man, 
but  to  Milly  in  her  rosy  world  of  fiction,  it  appeared 
suddenly  as  if  there  had  protruded  upon  her  attention 
one  of  the  great,  ugly,  wholesome  facts  of  life.  What 
was  the  use,  she  wondered,  in  being  beautiful  if  her 
love  letters  were  to  be  filled  with  enthusiastic  accounts 
of  her  lover's  prowess  in  the  tobacco  market? 

At  the  breakfast  table  Jasper  Trend  was  pouring 
maple  syrup  on  the  buckwheat  cakes  he  had  piled 
on  his  plate,  and  at  the  girl's  entrance  he  spoke  without 


.66  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

Temoving  his  gaze  from  the  plated  silver  pitcher  in 
"his  hand. 

"Any  letters,  daughter?"  he  inquired,  carefully 
running  his  knife  along  the  mouth  of  the  pitcher 
to  catch  the  last  drop  of  syrup. 

4<  One,"  said  Milly,  as  she  sat  down  beside  the  coffee 
pot  and  looked  at  her  father  with  a  ripple  of  annoyance 
in  her  babyish  eyes. 

"I  reckon  I  can  guess  about  that  all  right," 
remarked  Jasper  with  his  cackling  chuckle,  which 
was  as  little  related  to  a  sense  of  humour  as  was  the 
"beating  of  a  tin  plate.  He  was  a  long,  scraggy  man, 
with  drab  hair  that  grew  in  scallops  on  his  narrow 
forehead  and  a  large  nose  where  the  prominent  red 
veins  turned  purple  when  he  became  excited. 

"There's  a  stranger  in  town,  father,"  said  Milly 
as  she  gave  him  his  second  cup  of  coffee.  "I  think 
lie  is  boarding  at  Mrs.  Twine's." 

"A  drummer,  I  reckon — thar 're  a  plenty  of  'em 
about  this  season." 

"No,  I  don't  believe  he  is  a  drummer — he  isn't — • 
is  n't  quite  so  sparky  looking.  But  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  say  'thar/  father.  You  promised  me 
yov  would  n't  do  it." 

"Well,  it  ain't  stood  in  the  way  of  my  getting  on," 
returned  Jasper  without  resentment.  Had  Milly  told 
him  to  shave  his  head,  he  might  have  protested  freely, 
but  in  the  end  he  would  have  gone  out  obediently  to 
his  barber.  Yet  people  outside  said  that  he  ground  the 
wages  of  his  workers  in  the  cotton  mills  down  to 
starvation  point,  and  that  he  had  been  elected  Mayor 


THE  PRETTY  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MAYOR    67 

not  through  popularity,  but  through  terror.  It  was 
rumoured  even  that  he  stood  with  his  wealth  behind 
the  syndicate  of  saloons  which  was  giving  an  ugly 
local  character  to  the  town.  But  whatever  his  public 
vices  may  have  been,  his  private  life  was  securely 
hedged  about  by  the  paternal  virtues. 

"  I  can't  place  him, but  I'm  sure  he  isn't  a' buyer,"' 
repeated  Milly,  after  a  moment's  devotion  to  the 
sugar  bowl. 

"  Well,  I  '11  let  you  knowwhen  I  see  him,"  responded 
Jasper  as  he  left  the  table  and  got  into  his  overcoat, 
while  Milly  jumped  up  to  wrap  his  neck  in  a  blue 
spotted  muffler. 

When  he  had  gone  from  the  house,  she  took  out 
her  lover's  letter  again,  but  it  proved,  on  a  second 
trial,  even  more  unsatisfactory  than  she  had  found 
it  to  be  at  her  first  reading  As  a  schoolgirl  Milly  had 
known  every  attribute  of  her  divinity  from  the  chiv- 
alry of  his  soul  to  the  shining  gloss  upon  his  boots — 
but  to-day  there  remained  to  her  only  the  despairing 
conviction  that  he  was  unlike  Banks.  Banks 
appeared  to  her  suddenly  in  the  hard  prosaic  light 
in  which  he,  on  his  own  account,  probably  viewed 
his  tobacco.  Even  her  trousseau  and  the  lace  of 
her  wedding  gown  ceased  to  afford  her  the  shadow 
of  consolation,  since  she  remembered  that  neither 
of  these  accessories  would  occupy  in  marriage  quite 
so  prominent  a  place  as  Banks. 

The  next  day  Ordway  passed  at  the  same  hour, 
still  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  After  this  she 
began  to  watch  regularly  for  his  figure,  looking  for 


38  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

it  when  it  appeared  on  Mrs.  Twine's  little  porch,  and 
following  it  wistfully  until  it  was  lost  beyond  the 
new  brick  church  at  the  corner.  She  was  not  aware 
of  cultivating  a  facile  sentiment  about  the  stranger, 
but  place  a  riotous  imagination  in  an  empty  house  and 
it  requires  little  effort  to  weave  a  romance  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street.  Distance,  that  subtle 
magnifier  of  attachments,  had  come  to  her  aid  now 
as  it  had  failed  her  in  the  person  of  Harry  Banks. 
Even  from  across  the  street  it  was  impossible  to  invest 
Mr.  Banks  with  any  quality  which  might  have  sug- 
gested an  historic  background  or  a  mysterious  past. 
He  was  flagrantly,  almost  outrageously  himself;  in 
no  fictitious  circumstances  could  he  have  appeared 
as  anything  except  the  unvarnished  fact  that  he  was. 
No  legendary  light  could  have  glorified  his  features 
or  improved  the  set  of  his  trousers — which  had  taken 
their  shape  and  substance  from  the  legs  within. 
With  these  features  and  in  these  trousers,  she  felt 
that  he  must  usurp  the  sacred  precincts  where  her 
dream  had  dwelt.  "It  would  all  be  so  easy  if  one 
could  only  be  born  where  one  belongs,"  she  cried  out 
hopelessly,  in  the  unconscious  utterance  of  a  philos- 
ophy larger  than  her  own. 

And  so  as  the  week  went  by,  she  allowed  her  rosy 
fancies  to  surround  the  figure  that  passed  three 
times  daily  along  the  sidewalk  across  the  way.  In 
the  morning  he  walked  by  with  a  swinging  stride; 
at  midday  he  passed  rapidly,  absorbed  in  thought; 
in  the  evening  he  came  back  slowly,  sometimes 
stopping  to  watch  the  sunset  from  th»  brow  of  the 


THE  PRETTY  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MAYOR    69 

hill.  Not  since  the  first  morning  had  he  turned  his 
blue  eyes  toward  Milly's  gate. 

At  the  end  of  the  month  Mr.  Banks  returned 
to  Tappahannock  from  a  business  trip  through  the 
tobacco  districts.  He  was  an  ugly,  freckled  face, 
sandy-haired  young  fellow — an  excellent  judge  of 
tobacco — with  a  simple  soul  that  attired  itself  in  large 
checks,  usually  of  a  black  and  white  variety.  On 
the  day  of  his  first  visit  to  Milly  he  wore  a  crimson 
necktie  pierced  by  a  scarfpin  bearing  a  turtle-dove 
in  diamonds. 

"Who's  that  fellow  over  there?"  he  inquired  as 
Ordway  came  up  the  hill  to  his  dinner.  "I  wonder 
if  he  's  the  chap  Hudge  was  telling  me  about  at 
breakfast?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Milly,  in  a  voice 
that  sounded  flat  in  her  own  ears.  "Nobody  knows 
anything  about  him,  father  says.  But  what  was 
Hudge  telling  you? "  she  asked,  impelled  by  a  devouring 
yet  timid  curiosity. 

"Well,  if  he  's  the  man  I  mean,  he  seems  to  be  a 
kind  of  revivalist  out  of  a  job — or  something  or  other 
queer.  Hudge  says  he  broke  up  a  fight  last  Saturday 
evening  in  Kelly's  saloon — that 's  the  place  you  've 
never  heard  the  name  of,  I  reckon,"  he  added  hesita- 
tingly, "it's  where  all  the  factory  hands  gather  after 
work  on  Saturday  to  drink  up  their  week's  wages." 

For  once  Milly's  interest  was  stronger  than  her 
modesty. 

"And  did  he  fight?"  she  demanded  in  a  suspense 
that  was  almost  breathless. 


70  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"  He  was  n't  there,  you  know — only  passing  along 
the  street  outside,  at  least  that 's  what  they  say — • 
when  the  rumpus  broke  out.  Then  he  went  in 
through  the  window  and " 

"And?"  repeated  Milly,  with  an  entrancing  vision 
of  heroic  blows,  for  beneath  her  soft  exterior  the  blood 
of  the  primitive  woman  flowed. 

"And  preached! "  finished  Banks,  with  a  prodigious 
burst  of  merriment, 

"Preached?"  gasped  Milly,  "do  you  mean  a 
sermon?" 

"Not  a  regular  sermon,  but  he  spoke  just  like  a 
preacher  for  a  solid  hour.  Before  he  'd  finished  the 
men  who  were  drunk  were  crying  like  babies  and  the 
men  who  were  n't  were  breaking  their  necks  to  sign 
the  pledge — at  any  rate  that 's  something  like  the 
tale  they  tell.  There  was  never  such  speaking 
(Hudge  says  he  was  there)  heard  before  in  Tappa- 
hannock,  and  Kelly  is  as  mad  as  a  hornet  because  he 
swears  the  town  is  going  dry." 

"And  he  did  n't  strike  a  single  blow?"  asked  Milly, 
with  a  feeling  of  disappointment. 

"Why,  he  had  those  drunken  fools  all  blubbering 
like  kids,"  said  Banks,  "and  then  when  it  was  over 
he  got  hold  of  Kit  Berry  (he  started  the  row,  you 
know)  and  carried  him  all  the  way  home  to  the  little 
cottage  in  the  hollow  across  the  town  where  Kit 
lives  with  his  mother.  N  ext  Sunday  if  it 's  fine 
there  's  going  to  be  an  open  air  meeting  in  Baxter's 
field." 

There  was  a  sore  little  spot  in  Milly 's  heart,  a  vague 


THE  PRETTY  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  MAYOR  71 

sentiment  of  disenchantment.  Her  house  of  dreams, 
which  she  had  reared  so  patiently,  stood  cold  and 
tenantless  once  more. 

"Did  you  ever  find  out  his  name?"  she  asked,  with 
a  last  courageous  hope. 

"Smith,"  replied  Banks,  with  luminous  simplicity. 
"The  boys  have  nick-named  him  'Ten  Commandment 
Smith.'  " 

"Ten  Commandment  Smith?"  echoed  Milly  in  a 
lifeless  voice.  Her  house  of  dreams  had  tottered  at 
the  blow  and  fallen  from  its  foundation  stone. 


CHAPTER  VII 
SHOWS  THE  GRACES  OF  ADVERSITY 

ON  THE  morning  after  the  episode  in  the  barroom 
which  Banks  had  described  to  Milly,  Ordway  found 
Baxter  awaiting  him  in  a  condition  which  in  a 
smaller  person  would  have  appeared  to  be  a  flutter 
of  excitement. 

"  So  you  got  mixed  up  in  a  barroom  row  last  night, 
I  hear,  Smith?" 

"Well,  hardly  that,"  returned  Ordway,  smiling 
as  he  saw  the  other's  embarrassment  break  out  in 
drops  of  perspiration  upon  his  forehead.  "I  was  in 
it,  I  admit,  but  I  can't  exactly  say  that  I  was  '  mixed 
up.'  " 

"You  got  Kit  Berry  out,  eh? — and  took  him  home." 

"Nothing  short  of  a  sober  man  could  have  done 
it.  He  lives  on  the  other  side  of  the  town  in  Bull- 
finch's Hollow." 

"Oh,  I've  been  there,"  said  Baxter,  "I've  taken 
him  home  myself." 

The  boyish  spar  Me  had  leaped  to  Ordway's  eyes 
which  appeared  in  the  animation  of  the  moment 
to  lend  an  expression  of  gaiety  to  his  face.  As 
Baxter  looked  at  him  he  felt  something  of  the 
charm  which  had  touched  the  drunken  crowd  in  the 
saloon. 

72 


SHOWS  THE  GRACES  OF  ADVERSITY     73 

"His  mother  was  at  my  house  before  breakfast," 
he  said,  in  a  tone  that  softened  as  he  went  on  until 
it  sounded  as  if  his  whole  perspiring  person  had 
melted  into  it.  "She  was  in  a  great  state,  poor 
creature,  for  it  seemed  that  when  Kit  woke  up  this 
morning  he  promised  her  never  to  touch  another 
drop." 

"Well,  I  hope  he  11  keep  his  word,  but  I  doubt  it," 
responded  Ordway.  He  thought  of  the  bare  little 
room  he  had  seen  last  night,  of  the  patched  garments 
drying  before  the  fire,  of  the  scant  supper  spread  upon 
the  table,  and  of  the  gray-haired,  weeping  woman 
who  had  received  his  burden  from  him. 

"He  may — for  a  week,"  commented  Baxter,  and 
he  added  with  a  big,  shaking  laugh,  "they  tell  me 
you  gave  'em  a  sermon  that  was  as  good  as  a 
preacher's." 

"Nonsense.  I  got  angry  and  spoke  a  few  words, 
that 's  all." 

"Well,  if  they  were  few,  they  seem  to  have  been 
pretty  pointed.  I  hear  Kelly  closed  his  place  two 
hours  before  midnight.  Even  William  Cotton  went 
home  without  falling  once,  he  said." 

"There  was  a  good  reason  for  that.  I  happened 
to  have  some  information  Cotton  wanted." 

"I  know,"  said  Baxter,  drawing  out  the  words 
with  a  lingering  emphasis  while  his  eyes  searched 
Ordway 's  face  with  a  curiosity  before  which  the 
younger  man  felt  himself  redden  painfully.  "Cotton 
told  me  you  got  him  out  of  a  scrape  as  well  as  a 
lawyer  could  have  done." 


74  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"  I  remembered  the  law  and  wrote  it  down  for  him, 
that 's  all." 

"Have  you  ever  practised  law  in  Virginia?" 

"I've  never  practised  anywhere,  but  I  intended 
to  when — "  he  was  going  to  add  "when  I  finished 
college,"  but  with  a  sudden  caution,  he  stopped 
short  and  then  selected  his  words  more  carefully, 
"when  I  was  a  boy.  I  read  a  good  deal  then  and 
some  of  it  still  sticks  in  my  memory." 

"I  see,"  commented  Baxter.  His  heart  swelled 
until  he  became  positively  uncomfortable,  and  he 
coughed  loudly  in  the  effort  to  appear  perfectly 
indifferent.  What  was  it  about  the  chap,  he  ques- 
tioned, that  had  pulled  at  him  from  the  start?  Was 
it  only  the  peculiar  mingling  of  pathos  and  gaiety 
in  his  look? 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  set  about  reforming  things  too 
much  if  I  were  you,"  he  said  at  last,  "it  ain't  worth 
it,  for  even  when  people  accept  the  reforms  they  are 
pretty  likely  to  reject  the  reformer.  A  man's  got  to 
have  a  mighty  tough  stomach  to  be  able  to  do  good 
immoderately.  But  all  the  same,"  he  concluded 
heartily,  "you're  the  right  stuff  and  I  like  you.  I 
respect  pluck  no  matter  whether  it  comes  out  in 
preaching  or  in  blows.  I  reckon,  by  the  way,  if  you  'd 
care  to  turn  bookkeeper,  you  'd  be  worth  as  good  as 
a  hundred  a  month  to  me." 

There  was  a  round  coffee  stain,  freshly  spilled  at 
breakfast,  on  his  cravat,  and  Ordway's  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  it  with  a  kind  of  fascination  during  the 
whole  of  his  speech.  The  very  slovenliness  of  the 


SHOWS  THE  GRACES  OF  ADVERSITY     75 

man — the  unshaven  cheeks,  the  wilted  collar,  the 
shotted  necktie,  the  loosely  fitting  alpaca  coat  he 
xv ore,  all  seemed  in  some  inexplicable  way,  to  empha- 
sise the  large  benignity  of  his  aspect.  Strangely 
enough  his  failures  as  a  gentleman  appeared  to  add 
to  his  impressiveness  as  a  man.  One  felt  that  his 
faults  were  merely  virtues  swelled  to  abnormal  pro- 
portions— as  the  carelessness  in  his  dress  was  but  a 
degraded  form  of  the  lavish  generosity  of  his  heart. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  'd  hoped  for  that  all  along," 
said  Ordway,  withdrawing  his  gaze  with  an  effort 
from  the  soiled  cravat.  "Do  you  want  me  to  start 
in  at  the  books  to-day?" 

For  an  instant  Baxter  hesitated;  then  he  coughed 
and  went  on  as  if  he  found  difficulty  in  selecting  the 
words  that  would  convey  his  meaning. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  mind  there  's  a  delicate  little 
matter  I  'd  like  you  to  attend  to  first.  Being  a  stranger 
I  thought  it  would  be  easier  for  you  than  for  me — 
have  you  ever  heard  anybody  speak  of  Beverly 
Brooke?" 

The  interest  quickened  in  Ordway 's  face. 

"Why,  yes.  I  came  along  the  road  one  day  with 
a  farmer  who  gave  me  his  whole  story — Adam 
Whaley,  I  heard  afterward,  was  his  name." 

Baxter  whistled.  "Oh,  I  reckon,  he  hardly  told 
you  the  whole  story — for  I  don't  believe  there 's 
anybody  living  except  myself  who  knows  what  a 
darn  fool  Mr.  Beverly  is.  That  man  has  never  done 
an  honest  piece  of  work  in  his  life ;  he  's  spent  every 
red  cent  of  his  wife's  money,  and  his  sister's  too,  in 


76  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

some  wild  goose  kind  of  speculation — and  yet,  bless 
my  soul,  he  has  the  face  to  strut  in  here  any  day 
and  lord  it  over  me  just  as  if  he  were  his  grand- 
father's ghost  or  George  Washington.  It 's  queer 
about  those  old  families,  now  ain't  it?  When  they 
begin  to  peter  out  it  ain't  just  an  ordinary  peter- 
ing, but  a  sort  of  mortal  rottenness  that  takes  'em 
root  and  branch." 

"And  so  I  am  to  interview  this  interesting  example 
of  degeneration?"  asked  Ordway,  smiling. 

"You've  got  to  make  him  understand  that  he  can't 
ship  me  any  more  of  his  worthless  tobacco,"  exclaimed 
Baxter  in  an  outburst  of  indignation.  "Do  you 
know  what  he  does,  sir? — Well,  he  raises  a  lazy, 
shiftless,  worm-eaten  crop  of  tobacco  in  an  old  field — • 
plants  it  too  late,  tops  it  too  late,  cuts  it  too  late, 
cures  it  too  late,  and  then  lets  it  lie  around  in  some 
leaky  smokehouse  until  it  isn't  fit  for  a  hog  to  chew. 
After  he  has  left  it  there  to  rot  all  winter,  he  gathers 
the  stuff  up  on  the  first  pleasant  day  in  spring  and 
gets  an  old  nigger  to  cart  it  to  me  in  an  open  wagon. 
The  next  day  he  lounges  in  here  with  his  palavering 
ways,  and  demands  the  highest  price  in  the  market — 
and  I  give  it  to  him!  That 's  the  damned  outrage 
of  it,  I  give  it  to  him!"  concluded  Baxter  with  an 
excitement  in  which  his  huge  person  heaved  like  a 
shaken  mountain.  "  I  've  bought  his  trash  for  twenty 
years  and  ground  it  into  snuff  because  I  was  afraid 
to  refuse  a  Brooke — but  Brooke  or  no  Brooke  there's 
an  end  to  it  now,"  he  turned  and  waved  his  hand 
furiously  to  a  pile  of  tobacco  lying  on  the  warehouse 


SHOWS  THE  GRACES  OF  ADVERSITY    77 

floor,  "there's  his  trash  and  it  ain't  fit  even  for 
snuff!" 

He  led  Ordway  back  into  the  building,  picked  up 
several  leaves  from  the  pile,  smelt  them,  and  threw 
them  down  with  a  contemptuous  oath.  "Worm- 
eaten,  frost-bitten,  mildewed.  I  want  you  to  go  out 
to  Cedar  Hill  and  tell  the  man  that  his  stuff  ain't  fit 
for  anything  but  fertiliser,"  he  went  on.  "If  he 
wants  it  he  'd  better  come  for  it  and  haul  it  away." 

"And  if  he  refuses?" 

"  He  most  likely  will — then  tell  him  1 11  throw  it 
into  the  ditch." 

"Oh,  I'll  tell  him,"  responded  Ordway,  and  he  was 
aware  of  a  peculiar  excitement  in  the  prospect  of 
an  encounter  with  the  redoubtable  Mr.  Beverly. 
"I'll  do  my  best,"  he  added,  going  through  the 
archway,  while  Baxter  followed  him  with  a  few 
last  words  of  instruction  and  advice.  The  big 
man's  courage  had  evidently  begun  to  ebb,  for  as 
Ordway  passed  into  the  street,  he  hurried  after  him 
to  suggest  that  he  should  approach  the  subject 
with  as  much  delicacy  as  he  possessed.  "  I  would  n't 
butt  at  Mr.  Beverly,  if  I  were  you,"  he  cautioned, 
"just  edge  around  and  work  in  slowly  when  you  get 
the  chance." 

But  the  advice  was  wasted  upon  Ordway,  for  he 
had  started  out  in  an  impatience  not  unmixed  with 
anger.  Who  was  this  fool  of  a  Brooke?  he  wondered, 
and  what  power  did  he  possess  that  kept  Tappa- 
hannock  in  a  state  of  slavery?  He  was  glad  that 
Baxter  had  sent  him  on  the  errand,  and  the  next 


78  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

minute  he  laughed  aloud  because  the  big  man  had 
been  too  timid  to  come  in  person. 

He  had  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  was  about 
to  turn  into  the  road  he  had  taken  his  first  night  in 
Tappahannock,  when  a  woman,  wrapped  in  a  shawl, 
hurried  across  the  street  from  one  of  the  smaller 
houses  fronting  upon  the  green. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  are  you  the  man  that 
helped  William  Cotton? " 

Clearly  William  Cotton  was  bringing  him  into 
notice.  At  the  thought  Ordway  looked  down  upon 
his  questioner  with  a  sensation  that  was  almost  one  of 
pleasure. 

"  He  needed  business  advice  and  I  gave  it,  that  was 
all,"  he  answered. 

"  But  you  wrote  down  the  whole  case  for  him  so  that 
he  could  understand  it  and  speak  for  himself,"  she 
said,  catching  her  breath  in  a  sob,  as  she  pulled  her 
thin  shawl  together.  "You  got  him  out  of  his  troubles 
and  asked  nothing,  so  I  hoped  you  might  be  willing 
to  do  as  much  by  me.  I  am  a  widow  with  five 
little  children,  and  though  I  Ve  paid  every  penny 
I  could  scrape  together  for  the  mortgage,  the  farm 
is  to  be  sold  over  our  heads  and  we  have  nowhere 
to  go." 

Again  the  glow  that  was  like  the  glow  of  pleasure 
illuminated  Ordway 's  mind. 

"There  's  not  one  chance  in  a  hundred  that  I  can 
help  you,"  he  said;  "in  the  case  of  William  Cotton  it 
was  a  mere  accident.  Still  if  you  will  tell  me  where 
you  live,  I  will  come  to  you  this  evening  and  talk 


SHOWS  THE  GRACES  OF  ADVERSITY  79 

matters  over.  If  I  can  help  you,  I  promise  you  I 
will  with  pleasure." 

"And  for  nothing?     I  am  very  poor." 

He  shook  his  head  with  a  laugh.  ''Oh,  I  get  more 
fun  out  of  it  than  you  could  understand!  " 

After  writing  down  the  woman's  name  in  his  note- 
book, he  passed  into  the  country  road  and  bent  his 
thoughts  again  upon  the  approaching  visit  to  Mr. 
Beverly. 

When  he  reached  Cedar  Hill,  which  lay  a  sombre 
shadow  against  the  young  green  of  the  landscape,  he 
saw  that  the  dead  cedars  still  lay  where  they  had 
fallen  across  the  avenue.  Evidently  the  family 
temper  had  assumed  an  opposite,  though  equally 
stubborn  form,  in  the  person  of  the  girl  in  the  red 
cape,  and  she  had,  he  surmised,  refused  to  allow 
Beverly  to  profit  by  his  desecration  even  to  the 
extent  of  selling  the  trees  he  had  already  cut  down. 
Was  it  from  a  sentiment,  or  as  a  warning,  he  wondered, 
that  she  left  the  great  cedars  barring  the  single 
approach  to  the  house?  In  either  case  the  magnifi- 
cent insolence  of  her  revenge  moved  him  to  an 
acknowledgment  of  her  spirit  and  her  justice. 

In  the  avenue  a  brood  of  young  turkeys  were  scratch- 
ing in  the  fragrant  dust  shed  by  the  trees ;  and  at  his 
approach  they  scattered  and  fled  before  him.  It  was 
long  evidently  since  a  stranger  had  penetrated  into 
the  melancholy  twilight  of  the  cedars ;  for  the  flutter 
of  the  turkeys,  he  discovered  presently,  was  repeated 
in  an  excited  movement  he  felt  rather  than  saw  as 
he  ascended  the  stone  steps  and  knocked  at  the  door. 


8o  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

The  old  hound  he  had  seen  the  first  night  rose  from 
under  a  bench  on  the  porch,  and  came  up  to  lick  his 
hand;  a  window  somewhere  in  the  right  wing  shut 
with  a  loud  noise;  and  through  the  bare  old  hall, 
which  he  could  see  from  the  half  open  door,  a  breeze 
blew  dispersing  an  odour  of  hot  soapsuds.  The  hall 
was  dim  and  empty  except  for  a  dilapidated  sofa  in 
one  corner,  on  which  a  brown  and  white  setter  lay 
asleep,  and  a  rusty  sword  which  clanked  against  the 
wall  with  a  regular,  swinging  motion.  In  response 
to  his  repeated  knocks  there  was  a  sound  of  slow  steps 
on  the  staircase,  and  a  handsome,  shabbily  dressed 
man,  holding  a  box  of  dominoes,  came  to  the  door 
and  held  out  his  hand  with  an  apologetic  murmur. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  the  wind  makes  such  a 
noise  I  did  not  hear  your  knock.  Will  you  come 
inside  or  do  you  prefer  to  sit  on  the  porch  where  we 
can  get  the  view?" 

As  he  spoke  he  edged  his  way  courteously  across 
the  threshold  and  with  a  hospitable  wave  of  his 
hand,  sat  down  upon  one  of  the  pine  benches 
against  the  decaying  railing.  In  spite  of  the  shabbi- 
ness  of  his  clothes  he  presented  a  singularly  attractive, 
even  picturesque  appearance,  from  the  abundant 
white  hair  above  his  forehead  to  his  small,  shapely 
feet  encased  now  in  an  ancient  pair  of  carpet  slippers. 
His  figure  was  graceful  and  well  built,  his  brown  eyes 
soft  and  melancholy,  and  the  dark  moustache  droop- 
ing over  his  mouth  had  been  trained  evidently  into 
an  immaculate  precision.  His  moustache,  however, 
was  the  one  immaculate  feature  of  his  person,  for 


SHOWS  THE  GRACES  OF  ADVERSITY     81 

even  his  carpet  slippers  were  dirty  and  worn  thread- 
bare in  places.  Yet  his  beauty,  which  was  obscured 
in  the  first  view  by  what  in  a  famous  portrait  might 
have  been  called  "the  tone  of  time,"  produced,  after 
a  closer  and  more  sympathetic  study,  an  effect  which, 
upon  Ordway  at  least,  fell  little  short  of  the  romantic. 
In  his  youth  Beverly  had  been,  probably,  one  of 
the  handsomest  men  of  his  time,  and  this  distinction, 
it  was  easy  to  conjecture,  must  have  been  the  occasion, 
if  not  the  cause,  of  his  ruin.  Even  now,  pompous 
and  slovenly  as  he  appeared,  it  was  difficult  to  resist 
a  certain  mysterious  fascination  which  he  still  pos- 
sessed. When  he  left  Tappahannock  Ordway  had  felt 
only  a  humorous  contempt  for  the  owner  of  Cedar 
Hill,  but  sitting  now  beside  him  on  the  hard  pine 
bench,  he  found  himself  yielding  against  his  will  to 
an  impulse  of  admiration.  Was  there  not  a  certain 
spiritual  kinship  in  the  fact  that  they  were  both 
failures  in  life? 

"You  are  visiting  Tappahannock,  then?"  asked 
Beverly  with  his  engaging  smile;  "I  go  in  seldom  or 
I  should  perhaps  have  seen  you.  When  a  man  gets 
as  old  and  as  much  of  an  invalid  as  I  am,  he  usually 
prefers  to  spend  his  days  by  the  fireside  in  the  bosom 
of  his  family." 

The  bloom  of  health  was  in  his  cheeks,  yet  as  he 
spoke  he  pressed  his  hand  to  his  chest  with  the 
habitual  gesture  of  an  invalid.  "A  chronic  trouble 
which  has  prevented  my  taking  an  active  part  in  the 
world's  affairs,"  he  explained,  with  a  sad,  yet  cheerful 
dignity  as  of  one  who  could  enliven  tragedy  with  a 


8a  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

comic  sparkle.  "I  had  my  ambitions  once,  sir," 
he  added,  "but  we  will  not  speak  of  them  for  they 
are  over,  and  at  this  time  of  my  life  I  can  do  little 
more  than  try  to  amuse  myself  with  a  box  of 
dominoes." 

As  he  spoke  he  placed  the  box  on  the  bench  between 
them  and  began  patiently  matching  the  littls  ivory 
blocks.  Ordway  expressed  a  casual  sympathy,  and 
then,  forgetting  Baxter's  warning,  he  attempted  to 
bring  the  conversation  to  a  practical  level. 

"I  am  employed  now  at  Baxter's  warehouse/'  he 
began,  "and  the  object  of  my  call  is  to  speak  with 
you  about  your  last  load  of  tobacco. " 

"Ah!"  said  Beverly,  with  warming  interest,  "it 
is  a  sufficient  recommendation  to  have  come  from 
Robert  Baxter — for  that  man  has  been  the  best, 
almost  the  only,  friend  I  have  had  in  life.  It  is 
impossible  to  overestimate  either  his  character  or 
my  admiration.  He  has  come  to  my  assistance,  sir, 
when  I  hardly  knew  where  to  turn  for  help.  If  you 
are  employed  by  him,  you  are  indeed  to  be  envied." 

"I  am  entirely  of  your  opinion,"  observed  Ordway, 
"but  the  point  this  morning " 

"Well,  we  11  let  that  rest  awhile  now,"  interrupted 
Beverly,  pushing  the  dominoes  away,  and  turning 
his  beautiful,  serious  face  upon  his  companion. 
' '  When  there  is  an  opportunity  for  me  to  speak  of 
Baxter's  generosity,  I  feel  that  I  cannot  let  it  escape 
me.  Something  tells  me  that  you  will  understand 
and  pardon  my  enthusiasm.  There  is  no  boy  like 
an  old  boy,  sir." 


SHOWS  THE  GRACES  OF  ADVERSITY     83 

His  voice  broke,  and  drawing  a  ragged  hand- 
kerchief from  the  pocket  of  his  corduroy  coat, 
he  blew  his  nose  and  wiped  away  two  large  teardrops 
from  his  eyes.  After  such  an  outburst  of  sentiment 
it  seemed  a  positive  indecency  to  inform  him  that 
Baxter  had  threatened  to  throw  his  tobacco  into 
a  ditch. 

"  He  regrets  very  much  that  your  crop  was  a  failure 
this  year,"  said  Ordway,  after  what  he  felt  to  be  a 
respectable  pause. 

"And  yet,"  returned  Beverly,  with  his  irrepressible 
optimism,  "if  things  had  been  worse  it  might  even 
have  rotted  in  the  ground.  As  it  was,  I  never  saw  more 
beautiful  seedlings — they  were  perfect  specimens. 
Had  not  the  tobacco  worms  and  the  frost  and  the 
leak  in  the  smokehouse  all  combined  against  me,  I 
should  have  raised  the  most  splendid  crop  in  Vir- 
ginia, sir."  The  spectacle  of  this  imaginary  crop 
suffused  his  face  with  a  glow  of  ardour.  "My 
health  permits  me  to  pay  little  attention  to  the 
farm,"  he  continued  in  his  eloquent  voice,  "I  see  it 
falling  to  ruins  about  me,  and  I  am  fortunate  in  being 
able  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  its  decay.  Yes,  my  crop 
was  a  failure,  I, admit,"  he  added,  with  a  touching 
cheerfulness,  "it  lay  several  months  too  long  in  the 
barn  before  I  could  get  it  sent  to  the  warehouse — but 
this  was  my  misfortune,  not  my  fault,  as  I  am  sure 
Robert  Baxter  will  understand." 

"  He  will  find  it  easier  to  understand  the  case  than 
to  sell  the  tobacco,  I  fancy." 

"  However  that  may  be,  he  is  aware  that  I  place  the 


84  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

utmost  confidence  in  his  judgment.  What  he  does 
will  be  the  right  thing,  sir." 

This  confession  of  artless  trust  was  so  overpowering 
that  for  a  moment  Ordway  hung  back,  feeling  that 
any  ground  would  be  dangerous  ground  upon  which 
to  proceed.  The  very  absorption  in  which  Beverly 
arranged  the  dominoes  upon  the  bench  added  to  the 
childlike  simplicity  of  his  appearance.  Then  a 
sudden  irritation  against  the  man  possessed  him, 
for  he  remembered  the  girl  in  the  red  cape  and  the 
fallen  cedars.  From  where  he  sat  now  they  were 
hidden  by  the  curve  of  the  avenue,  but  the  wonderful 
trees,  which  shed  their  rich  gloom  almost  upon  the 
roof  of  the  house,  made  him  realise  afresh  the  full  ex- 
tent of  Beverly's  folly.  In  the  fine  spring  sunshine 
whatever  beauties  were  left  in  the  ruined  place  showed 
in  an  intenser  and  more  vernal  aspect.  Every  spear 
of  grass  on  the  lawn  was  tipped  with  light,  and  the 
young  green  leaves  on  the  lilacs  stood  out  as  if 
illuminated  on  a  golden  background.  In  one  of 
the  ivy-covered  eaves  a  wren  was  building,  and 
he  could  see  the  flutter  of  a  bluebird  in  an  ancient 
cedar. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  day,"  remarked  Beverly,  pen- 
sively, "but  the  lawn  needs  trimming."  His  gaze 
wandered  gently  over  the  tangled  sheep  mint,  orchard 
grass  and  Ailantus  shoots  which  swept  from  the 
front  steps  to  the  fallen  fence  which  had  once  sur- 
rounded the  place,  and  he  added  with  an  outburst 
of  animation,  "I  must  tell  Micah  to  turn  in  the 
cattle." 


SHOWS  THE  GRACES  OF  ADVERSITY     85 

Remembering  the  solitary  cow  he  had  seen  in  a 
sheltered  corner  of  the  barn,  Ordway  bit  back  a 
smile  as  he  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

''After  all,  I  haven't  delivered  my  message,"  he 
said,  "which  was  to  the  effect  that  the  tobacco  is 
practically  unfit  for  use.  Baxter  told  me  to  request 
you  to  send  for  it  at  your  convenience." 

Beverly  gathered  up  his  dominoes,  and  rising  with 
no  appearance  of  haste,  turned  upon  him  an  expres- 
sion of  suffering  dignity. 

"Such  an  act  upon  my  part,"  he  said,  "would  be 
a  reflection  upon  Baxter's  ability  as  a  merchant,  and 
after  thirty  years  of  friendship  I  refuse  to  put  an 
affront  upon  him.  I  would  rather,  sir,  lose  every 
penny  my  tobacco  might  bring  me." 

His  sincerity  was  so  admirable,  that  for  a  moment 
it  obscured  even  in  Ordway 's  mind  the  illusion 
upon  which  it  rested.  When  a  man  is  honestly 
ready  to  sacrifice  his  fortune  in  the  cause  of  friend- 
ship, it  becomes  the  part  of  mere  vulgarity  to 
suggest  to  him  that  his  affairs  are  in  a  state  of 
penury. 

"Then  it  must  be  used  for  fertilisers  or  thrown 
away,"  said  Ordway,  shortly. 

"I  trust  myself  entirely  in  Baxter's  hands,"  re- 
plied Beverly,  in  sad  but  noble  tones,  "whatever  he 
does  will  be  the  best  that  could  be  done  under  the 
circumstances.  You  may  assure  him  of  this  with  my 
compliments." 

"Well,  I  fear,  there  's  nothing  further  to  be  said," 
remarked  Ordway;  and  he  was  about  to  make  his 


86  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

final  good-bye,  when  a  faded  lady,  wrapped  in  a 
Paisley  shawl,  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  came 
out  upon  the  porch. 

"Amelia,"  said  Beverly,  "allow  me  to  present  Mr. 
Smith.  Mr.  Smith,  Mrs.  Brooke." 

Mrs.  Brooke  smiled  at  him  wanly  with  a  pretty, 
thin-lipped  mouth  and  a  pair  of  large  rather  promi- 
nent eyes,  which  had  once  been  gray  but  were  now 
washed  into  a  cloudy  drab.  She  was  still  pretty  in 
a  hopeless,  depressed,  ineffectual  fashion ;  and  though 
her  skirt  was  frayed  about  the  edges  and  her  shoes 
run  down  at  the  heel,  her  pale,  fawn-coloured  hair 
was  arranged  in  elaborate  spirals  and  the  hand  she 
held  out  to  Ordway  was  still  delicately  fine  and  white. 
She  was  like  a  philosopher,  who,  having  sunk  into  a 
universal  pessimism  of  thought,  preserves,  in  spite 
of  himself,  a  small  belief  or  so  in  the  minor  pleasures 
of  existence.  Out  of  the  general  wreck  of  her 
appearance  she  had  clung  desperately  to  the  beau- 
ties of  her  hair  and  hands. 

"I  had  hoped  you  would  stay  to  dinner,"  she 
remarked  in  her  listless  manner  to  Ordway.  Fate 
had  whipped  her  into  submission,  but  theie  was  that 
in  her  aspect  which  never  permitted  one  for  an 
instant  to  forget  the  whipping.  If  her  husband  had 
dominated  by  his  utter  incapacity,  she  had  found 
a  smaller  consolation  in  feeling  that  though  she  had 
been  obliged  to  drudge  she  had  never  learned  to  do 
it  well.  To  do  it  badly,  indeed,  had  become  at  last 
the  solitary  proof  that  by  right  of  birth  she  was 
entitled  not  to  do  it  at  all. 


SHOWS  THE  GRACES  OP  ADVERSITY     87 

At  Ordway's  embarrassed  excuse  she  made  no 
effort  to  insist,  but  stood,  smiling  like  a  ghost  of  her 
own  past  prettiness,  in  the  doorway.  Behind  her 
the  bare  hall  and  the  dim  staircase  appeared  more 
empty,  more  gloomy,  more  forlornly  naked  than 
they  had  done  before. 

Again  Ordway  reached  for  his  hat,  and  prepared 
to  pick  his  way  carefully  down  the  sunken  steps; 
but  this  time  he  was  arrested  by  the  sound  of  smoth- 
ered laughter  at  the  side  of  the  house,  which  ran 
back  to  the  vegetable  garden.  A  moment  later 
the  girl  in  the  red  cape  appeared  running  at  full 
speed  across  the  lawn,  pursued  by  several  shriek- 
ing children  that  followed  closely  at  her  skirts.  Her 
clear,  ringing  laugh — the  laugh  of  youth  and  buoyant 
health — held  Ordway  motionless  for  an  instant  upon 
the  porch;  then  as  she  came  nearer  he  saw  that  she 
held  an  old,  earth-covered  spade  in  her  hands  and 
that  her  boots  and  short  woollen  skirt  were  soiled 
with  stains  from  the  garden  beds.  But  the  smell 
of  the  warm  earth  that  clung  about  her  seemed  only 
to  increase  the  vitality  and  freshness  in  her  look. 
Her  vivid  animation,  her  sparkling  glance,  struck 
him  even  more  forcibly  than  they  had  done  in  the 
street  of  Tappahannock. 

At  sight  of  Ordway  her  laugh  was  held  back 
breathlessly  for  an  instant;  then  breaking  out  again, 
it  began  afresh  with  redoubled  merriment,  and  sink- 
ing with  exhaustion  on  the  lowest  step,  she  let  the 
spade  fall  to  the  ground  while  she  buried  her  wind- 
blown head  in  her  hands. 


88  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  stammered  presently, 
lifting  her  radiant  brown  eyes,  "but  I  've  run  so  fast 
that  I  'm  quite  out  of  breath."  Stopping  with  an 
effort  she  sought  in  vain  to  extinguish  her  laughter 
in  the  curls  of  the  smallest  child. 

"Emily,"  said  Beverly  with  dignity,  "allow  me 
to  present  Mr.  Smith." 

The  girl  looked  up  from  the  step;  and  then, 
rising,  smiled  brightly  upon  Ordway  over  the  spade 
which  she  had  picked  up  from  the  ground. 

"I  can't  shake  hands,"  she  explained,  "because 
I've  been  spading  the  garden." 

If  she  recognised  him  for  the  tramp  who  had  slept  in 
her  barn  there  was  no  hint  of  it  in  her  voice  or  manner. 

"Do  you  mean,  Emily,"  asked  Beverly,  in  his 
plaintive  voice,  "that  you  have  been  actually  dig- 
ging in  the  ground?" 

"Actually,"  repeated  Emily,  in  a  manner  which 
made  Ordway  suspect  that  the  traditional  feminine 
softness  was  not  included  among  her  virtues.  "I 
actually  stepped  on  dirt  and  saw — worms." 

"But  where  is  Micah?" 

"Micah  has  an  attack  of  old  age.  He  was  eighty- 
two  yesterday," 

"Is  it  possible?"  remarked  Beverly,  and  the 
discovery  appeared  to  afford  him  ground  for  cheer- 
ful meditation. 

"No,  it  isn't  possible,  but  it  's  true,"  returned  the 
girl,  with  good-humoured  merriment.  "As  there  are 
only  two  able-bodied  persons  on  the  place,  the  mare 
and  I,  it  seemed  to  me  that  one  of  us  had  better  take 


SHOWS  THE  GRACES  OF  ADVERSITY     89 

a  hand  at  the  spade.  But  I  had  to  leave  off  after  the 
first  round,"  she  added  to  Ordway,  showing  him 
her  right  hand,  from  the  palm  of  which  the  skin 
had  been  rubbed  away.  She  was  so  much  like  a 
gallant  boy  that  Ordway  felt  an  impulse  to 
take  the  hand  in  his  own  and  examine  it  more 
carefully. 

"Well,  I  'm  very  much  surprised  to  hear  that  Micah 
is  so  old,"  commented  Beverly,  dwelling  upon  the 
single  fact  which  had  riveted  his  attention.  "I  must 
be  making  him  a  little  present  upon  his  birthday." 

The  girl's  eyes  flashed  under  her  dark  lashes,  but 
remembering  Ordway 's  presence,  she  turned  to  him 
with  a  casual  remark  about  the  promise  of  the  spring. 
He  saw  at  once  that  she  had  achieved  an  indignant 
detachment  from  her  thriftless  family,  and  the  ardent, 
almost  impatient  energy  with  which  she  fell  to 
labour  was,  in  itself,  a  rebuke  to  the  pleasant  indolence 
which  had  hastened,  if  it  had  not  brought  about,  the 
ruin  of  the  house.  Was  it  some  temperamental 
disgust  for  the  hereditary  idleness  which  had  spurred 
her  on  to  take  issue  with  the  worn-out  traditions  of 
her  ancestors  and  to  place  herself  among  the  labouring 
rather  than  the  leisure  class  ?  As  she  stood  there  in  her 
freshness  and  charm,  with  the  short  brown  curls 
blown  from  her  forehead,  the  edge  of  light  shining 
in  her  eyes  and  on  her  lips,  and  the  rich  blood  kindling 
in  her  vivid  face,  it  seemed  to  Ordway,  looking  back 
at  her  from  the  end  of  his  forty  years,  that  he  was 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  spirit  of  the  future 
rising  amid  the  decaying  sentiment  of  the  past. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
"TEN  COMMANDMENT  SMITH" 

WHEN  Ordway  had  disappeared  beyond  the  curve 
in  the  avenue,  Emily  went  slowly  up  the  steps,  her 
spade  clanking  against  the  stone  as  she  ascended. 

"Did. he  come  about  the  tobacco,  Beverly?"  she 
asked. 

Beverly  rose  languidly  from  the  bench,  and  stood 
rubbing  his  hand  across  his  forehead  with  an  ex- 
hausted air. 

"My  head  was  very  painful  and  he  talked  so  rap- 
idly I  could  hardly  follow  him,"  he  replied;  "but  is  it 
possible,  Emily,  that  you  have  been  digging  in  the 
garden?" 

"There  is  nobody  else  to  do  it,"  replied  Emily,  with 
an  impatient  flash  in  her  eyes;  "only  half  the  garden 
has  been  spaded.  If  you  disapprove  so  heartily,  I 
wish  you  'd  produce  someone  to  do  the  work." 

Mrs.  Brooke,  who  had  produced  nothing  in  her 
life  except  nine  children,  six  of  whom  had  died  in 
infancy,  offered  at  this  a  feeble  and  resigned  rebuke. 

"I  am  sure  you  could  get  Salem,"  she  replied. 

"We  owe  him  already  three  months'  wages," 
returned  the  girl,  "'I  am  still  paying  him  for  last 
autumn." 

"All  I  ask  of  you,  Emily,  is  peace,"  remarked 
90 


"TEN  COMMANDMENT  SMITH"          91 

Beverly,  in  a  gentle  voice,  as  he  prepared  to  enter 
the  house.  "Nothing — no  amount  of  brilliant  argu- 
ment can  take  the  place  of  peace  in  a  family  circle. 
M}?  poor  head  is  almost  distracted  when  you  raise 
your  voice." 

The  three  children  flocked  out  of  the  dining-room 
and  came,  with  a  rush,  to  fling  themselves  upon  him. 
They  adored  him — and  there  was  a  live  terrapin 
which  they  had  brought  in  a  box  for  him  to  see!  In 
an  instant  his  depression  vanished,  and  he  went  off, 
his  beautiful  face  beaming  with  animation,  while 
the  children  clung  rapturously  to  his  corduroy  coat. 

"Amelia,"  said  Emily,  lowering  her  voice,  "don't 
you  think  it  would  improve  Beverly's  health  if  he 
were  to  try  working  for  an  hour  every  day  in  the 
garden?" 

Mrs.  Brooke  appeared  troubled  by  the  suggestion. 
"If  he  could  only  make  up  his  mind  to  it,  I've  no 
doubt  it  would,"  she  answered,  "he  has  had  no 
exercise  since  he  was  obliged  to  give  up  his  horse. 
Walking  he  has  always  felt  to  be  ungentlemanly." 

She  spoke  in  a  softly  tolerant  voice,  though  she 
herself  drudged  day  and  night  in  her  anxious,  tearful, 
and  perfectly  ineffectual  manner.  For  twenty  years 
she  had  toiled  patiently  without,  so  far  as  one  could 
'perceive,  achieving  a  single  definite  result — for  by 
some  unfortunate  accident  of  temperament,  she  was 
doomed  to  do  badly  whatever  she  undertook  to  do 
at  all.  Yet  her  intention  was  so  admirable  that  she 
appeared  forever  apologising  in  her  heart  for  the  in- 
competence of  her  hands. 


92  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

Emily  placed  the  spade  in  the  corner  of  the  porch, 
and  desisting  from  her  purpose,  went  upstairs  to 
wash  her  hands  before  going  in  to  dinner.  As  she 
ascended  the  wide,  dimly  lighted  staircase,  upon 
which  the  sun  shone  with  a  greenish  light  from  the 
gallery  above,  she  stopped  twice  to  wonder  why 
Beverly's  visitor  had  slept  in  the  barn  like  a  tramp 
only  six  weeks  ago.  Before  her  mirror,  a  minute 
later,  she  put  the  same  question  to  herself  while  she 
braided  her  hair. 

The  room  was  large,  cool,  high-ceiled,  with  a  great 
brick  fireplace,  and  windows  which  looked  out  on  the 
garden,  where  purple  and  white  lilacs  were  blooming 
beside  the  gate.  On  the  southern  side  the  ivy  had 
grown  through  the  slats  of  the  old  green  shutters, 
until  they  were  held  back,  crumbling,  against  the 
house,  and  in  the  space  between  one  of  the  cedars 
brushed  always,  with  a  whispering  sound,  against  the 
discoloured  panes.  In  Emily's  absence  a  curious 
melancholy  descended  on  the  old  mahogany  furni- 
ture, the  greenish  windows  and  the  fireless 
hearth;  but  with  the  opening  of  the  door  and  the 
entrance  of  her  vivid  youth,  there  appeared  also  a 
light  and  gracious  atmosphere  in  her  surroundings. 
She  remembered  the  day  upon  which  she  had  returned 
after  ten  years'  absence,  and  how  as  she  opened  the 
closed  shutters,  the  gloom  of  the  place  had  resisted 
the  passage  of  the  sunshine,  retreating  stubbornly 
from  the  ceiling  to  the  black  old  furniture  and  then 
across  the  uncarpeted  floor  to  the  hall  where  it  still 
held  control.  For  months  after  her  return  it  had 


"TEN  COMMANDMENT  SMITH"  93 

seemed  to  her  that  the  fight  was  between  her  spirit 
and  the  spirit  of  the  past — between  hope  and  melan- 
choly, between  growth  and  decay.  The  burden  of 
debt,  of  poverty,  of  hopeless  impotence  had  fallen 
upon  her  shoulders,  and  she  had  struggled  under  it 
with  impetuous  gusts  of  anger,  but  with  an  energy 
that  never  faltered.  To  keep  the  children  fed  and 
clothed,  to  work  the  poor  farm  as  far  as  she  was  able, 
to  stay  clear  of  any  further  debts,  and  to  pay  off  the 
yearly  mortgage  with  her  small  income,  these  were  the 
things  which  had  filled  her  thoughts  and  absorbed 
the  gallant  fervour  of  her  youth.  Her  salary  at  the 
public  school  had  seemed  to  Beverly,  though  he  disap- 
proved of  her  position,  to  represent  the  possibility  of 
luxury;  and  in  some  loose,  vague  way  he  was  never 
able  to  understand  why  the  same  amount  could  not 
be  made  to  serve  in  several  opposite  directions  at  the 
same  time. 

"That  fifty  dollars  will  come  in  very  well,  indeed, 
my  dear,"  he  would  remark,  with  cheerfulness, 
gloating  over  the  unfamiliar  sight  of  the  bank  notes, 
"it 's  exactly  the  amount  of  Wilson's  bill  which  he  's 
been  sending  in  for  the  last  year,  and  he  refuses  to 
furnish  any  groceries  until  the  account  is  settled. 
Then  there  's  the  roof  which  must  be  repaired — it  will 
help  us  there — then  we  must  all  have  a  supply  of 
shoes,  and  the  wages  of  the  hands  are  due  to-morrow, 
I  overlooked  that  item." 

"  But  if  you  pay  it  all  to  Wilson,"  Emily  would  ask, 
as  a  kind  of  elementary  lesson  in  arithmetic,  "how  is 
the  money  going  to  buy  all  the  other  things?" 


94  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,"  Beverly  would  respond,  as  if 
struck  by  the  lucidity  of  the  idea,  "that  is  the 
question." 

And  it  was  likely  to  remain  the  question  until  the 
end  of  Beverly — for  he  had  grown  so  accustomed  to 
the  weight  of  poverty  upon  his  shoulders  that  he 
would  probably  have  felt  a  sense  of  loss  if  it  had  been 
suddenly  removed.  But  it  was  impossible  to  live 
in  the  house  with  him,  to  receive  his  confidences 
and  meet  his  charming  smile  and  not  to  entertain 
a  sentiment  of  affection  for  him  in  one's  heart. 
His  unfailing  courtesy  was  his  defence,  though 
even  this  at  times  worked  in  Emily  an  unreasonable 
resentment.  He  had  ruined  his  family,  and  she 
felt  that  she  could  have  forgiven  him  more  easily 
if  he  had  ruined  it  with  a  less  irreproachable  de- 
meanour. 

After  her  question  he  had  said  nothing  further 
about  the  tobacco,  but  a  chance  meeting  with 
Adam  Whaley,  as  she  rode  into  Tappahannock 
on  the  Sunday  after  Ordway's  visit,  made  clear 
to  her  exactly  what  the  purpose  of  that  visit  had 
been. 

"It's  a  pity  Mr.  Beverly  let  his  tobacco  spoil, 
particular'  arter  his  wheat  turned  out  to  be  no 
account,"  remarked  Adam.  "I  hope  you  don't 
mind  my  say  in',  Miss  Em'ly,  that  Mr.  Beverly  is 
about  as  po'  a  farmer  as  he  is  a  first  rate  gentle- 
man." 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  mind  in  the  least,  Adam,"  said 
Emily.  "Do  you  know,"  she  asked  presently, 


"TEN  COMMANDMENT  SMITH"  95 

"any  hands  that  I  can  get  to  work  the  garden  this 
week?" 

Whaley  shook  his  head.  "They  get  better  paid  at 
the  factories,"  he  answered;  "an'  them  that  ain't 
got  thar  little  patch  to  labour  in,  usually  manage  to 
git  a  job  in  town." 

Emily  was  on  her  old  horse — an  animal  discarded  by 
Mr.  Beverly  on  account  of  age — and  she  looked  down 
at  his  hanging  neck  with  a  feeling  that  was  almost  one 
of  hopelessness.  Beverly,  who  had  never  paid  his 
bills,  had  seldom  paid  his  servants;  and  of  the  old 
slave  generation  that  would  work  for  its  master  for  a 
song,  there  were  only  Micah  and  poor  half-demented 
Aunt  Mehitable  now  left. 

"The  trouble  with  Mr.  Beverly,"  continued 
Adam,  laying  his  hand  on  the  neck  of  the  old 
horse,  "is  that  he  was  born  loose- fingered  jest  as 
some  folks  are  born  loose-moraled.  He  *s  never 
held  on  to  anything  sense  he  came  into  the  world 
an'  I  doubt  if  he  ever  will.  Why,  bless  yo'  life, 
even  as  a  leetle  boy  he  never  could  git  a  good  grip 
on  his  fishin'  line.  It  was  always  a-slidin'  an' 
slippiri'  into  the  water." 

They  had  reached  Tappahannock  in  the  midst  of 
Adam's  philosophic  reflection;  and  as  they  were 
about  to  pass  an  open  field  on  the  edge  of 
the  town,  Emily  pointed  to  a  little  crowd  which 
had  gathered  in  the  centre  of  the  grass-grown 
space. 

"Is  it  a  Sunday  frolic,  do  you  suppose?"  she 
inquired. 


96  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"That?  Oh  no— it's  'Ten  Commandment  Smith,' 
as  they  call  him  now.  He  gives  a  leetle  talk  out  thar 
every  fine  Sunday  arternoon." 

' '  A  talk  ?     About  what  ? ' ' 

"Wall,  I  ain't  much  of  a  listener,  Miss,  when  it 
comes  to  that.  My  soul  is  willin'  an'  peart  enough, 
but  it 's  my  hands  an'  feet  that  make  the  trouble.  I 
declar'  I  've  only  got  to  set  down  in  a  pew  for  'em  to 
twitch  untwel  you  'd  think  I  had  the  Saint  Vitus 
dance.  It  don't  look  well  to  be  twitchin'  the  whole 
time  you  are  in  church,  so  that 's  the  reason  I  'm 
obleeged  to  stay  away.  As  for  'Ten  Commandment 
Smith,'  though,  he  's  got  a  voice  that 's  better  than 
the  doxology,  an'  his  words  jest  boom  along  like 
cannon." 

"And  do  the  people  like  it? " 

"Some,  of  'em  do,  I  reckon,  bein'  as  even  ser- 
mons have  thar  followers,  but  thar  're  t'others  that 
go  jest  out  of  the  sperit  to  be  obleegin',  an'  it  seems 
to  them  that  a  man 's  got  a  pretty  fair  licence  to  preach 
who  ,gives  away  about  two-thirds  of  what  he  gits  a 
month.  Good  Lord,  he  could  drum  up  a  respectable 
sized  congregation  jest  from  those  whose  back  mort- 
gages he's  helped  pay  up." 

While  he  spoke  Emily  had  turned  her  horse's 
head  into  the  field,  and  riding  slowly  toward  the 
group,  she  stopped  again  upon  discovering  that  it 
was  composed  entirely  of  men.  Then  going  a  little 
nearer,  she  drew  rein  just  beyond  the  outside  circle, 
and  paused  for  a  moment  with  her  eyes  fixed  intently 
upon  the  speaker's  face. 


'TEN  COMMANDMENT  SMITH"  97 

In  the  distance  a  forest,  still  young  in  leaf,  lent  a 
radiant,  springlike  background  to  the  field,  which 
rose  in  soft  green  swells  that  changed  to  golden 
as  they  melted  gradually  into  the  landscape. 
Ordway's  head  was  bare,  and  she  saw  now  that  the 
thick  locks  upon  his  forehead  were  powdered  heavily 
with  gray.  She  could  not  catch  his  words,  but  his 
voice  reached  her  beyond  the  crowd;  and  she  found 
herself  presently  straining  her  ears  lest  she  miss  the 
sound  which  seemed  to  pass  with  a  peculiar  richness 
into  the  atmosphere  about  the  speaker.  The  religious 
significance  of  the  scene  moved  her  but  little — for 
she  came  of  a  race  that  scorned  emotional  conversions 
or  any  faith,  for  that  matter,  which  did  not  confine 
itself  within  four  well-built  walls.  Yet,  in  spite  of 
her  convictions,  something  in  the  voice  whose  words 
she  could  not  distinguish,  held  her  there,  as  if  she  were 
rooted  on  her  old  horse  to  the  spot  of  ground.  The 
unconventional  preacher,  in  his  cheap  clothes,  aroused 
in  her  an  interest  which  seemed  in  some  vague  way  to 
have  its  beginning  in  a  mystery  that  she  could  not 
solve.  The  man  was  neither  a  professional  revivalist 
nor  a  member  of  the  Salvation  Army,  yet  he  appeared 
to  hold  the  attention  of  his  listeners  as  if  either  their 
money  or  their  faith  was  in  his  words.  And  it  was  no 
uncultured  oratory — "Ten  Commandment  Smith,"  for 
all  his  rough  clothes,  his  muddy  boots  and  his 
hardened  hands,  was  beneath  all  a  gentleman,  no 
matter  what  his  work — no  matter  even  what  his 
class.  Though  she  had  lived  far  out  of  the  world  in 
which  he  had  had  his  place,  she  felt  instinctively  that 


98  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

the  voice  she  heard  had  been  trained  to  reach 
another  audience  than  the  one  before  him  in  the  old 
field.  His  words  might  be  simple  and  straight  from 
the  heart — doubtless  they  were — but  the  voice  of  the 
preacher — the  vibrant,  musical,  exquisitely  mod- 
ulated voice — was  not  merely  a  personal  gift,  but  the 
result  of  generations  of  culture.  The  atmosphere  of 
a  larger  world  was  around  him  as  he  stood  there, 
bare-headed  in  the  sunshine,  speaking  to  a  breathless 
crowd  of  factory  workers  as  if  his  heart  went  out  to 
them  in  the  words  he  uttered.  Perfectly  motionless 
on  the  grass  at  his  feet  his  congregation  sat  in 
circles  with  their  pathetic  dumb  eyes  fixed  on  his 
face. 

"What  is  it  about,  Adam?  Can't  you  find  out?" 
asked  Emily,  stirred  by  an  impulsive  desire  to 
be  one  of  the  attentive  group  of  listeners — to  come 
tinder  the  spell  of  personality  which  drew  its  magic 
circle  in  the  centre  of  the  green  field. 

Adam  crossed  the  space  slowly,  and  returned  after 
what  was  to  Emily  an  impatient  interval. 

"It 's  one  of  his  talks  on  the  Ten  Commandments — 
that 's  why  they  gave  him  his  nickname.  I  did  n't 
stay  to  find  out  whether  'twas  the  top  or  the 
bottom  of  'em,  Miss,  as  I  thought  you  might  be 
in  a  hurry." 

"But  they  can  get  that  in  church.  What  makes 
them  come  out  here?" 

"Oh,  he  tells  'em  things,"  said  Adam,  "about 
people  and  places,  and  how  to  get  on  in  life.  Then 
he  's  aTays  so  ready  to  listen  to  anybody's  troubles 


"TEN  COMMANDMENT  SMITH"  99- 

afterward;  and  he's  taken  over  Martha  Fray  ley's 
mortgage — you  know  she 's  the  widow  of  Mike 
Frayley  who  was  a  fireman  and  lost  his  life  last 
January  in  the  fire  at  Bingham's  Wall — I  reckon, 
a  man  's  got  a  right  to  talk  big  when  he  lives  big, 
too." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  he  has,"  said  Emily.  "Well,  I 
must  be  going  now,  so  1 11  ride  on  ahead  of  you." 

Touching  the  neck  of  the  horse  with  her  bare 
hand,  she  passed  at  a  gentle  amble  into  one  of  the 
smaller  streets  of  Tappahannock.  Her  purpose  was 
to  call  upon  one  of  her  pupils  who  had  been  absent 
from  school  for  several  days,  but  upon  reaching  the 
house  she  found  that  the  child,  after  a  slight  illness „ 
had  recovered  sufficiently  to  be  out  of  doors. 
This  was  a  relief  rather  than  a  disappointment,  and 
mounting  again,  she  started  slowly  back  in  the 
direction  of  Cedar  Hill.  A  crowd  of  men,  walking  in 
groups  along  the  roadside,  made  her  aware  that  the 
gathering  in  the  field  had  dispersed,  and  as  she  rode 
by  she  glanced  curiously  among  them  in  the  hope  of 
discovering  the  face  of  the  speaker.  He  was  walking 
slightly  behind  the  crowd,  listening  with  an  expres- 
sion of  interest,  to  a  man  in  faded  blue  overalls, 
who  kept  a  timid  yet  determined  hold  upon  his  arm. 
His  face,  which  had  appeared  grave  to  Emily  when  she 
saw  it  at  Cedar  Hill,  wore  now  a  look  which  seemed  a 
mixture  of  spiritual  passion  and  boyish  amusement. 
He  impressed  her  as  both  sad  and  gay,  both  bitter 
and  sympathetic,  and  she  was  struck  again  by  the 
contrast  between  his  hard  mouth  and  his  gentle 


ioo  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

eyes.  As  she  met  his  glance,  he  bowed  without  a 
smile,  while  he  stepped  back  into  the  little  wayside 
path  among  the  dusty  thistles. 

Unconsciously,  she  had  searched  his  face  as  Milly 
Trend  had  done  before  her,  and  like  her,  she  had 
found  there  only  an  impersonal  kindliness. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW 

WHEN  she  reached  home  she  found  Beverly, 
seated  before  a  light  blaze  in  the  dining-room,  plunged 
in  the  condition  of  pious  indolence  which  constituted 
his  single  observance  of  the  Sabbath.  To  do  nothing 
had  always  seemed  to  him  in  its  way  as  religious  as 
to  attend  church,  and  so  he  sat  now  perfectly  motion- 
less, with  the  box  of  dominoes  reposing  beside  his 
tobacco  pouch  on  the  mantel  above  his  head.  The 
room  was  in  great  confusion,  and  the  threadbare 
carpet,  ripped  up  in  places,  was  littered  with  the 
broken  bindings  of  old  books  and  children's  toys 
made  of  birch  wood  or  corncob,  upon  which  Beverly 
delighted  to  work  during  the  six  secular  days  of  the 
week.  At  his  left  hand  the  table  was  already  laid 
for  supper,  which  consisted  of  a  dish  of  batter-bread, 
a  half  bared  ham  bone  and  a  pot  of  coffee,  from 
which  floated  a  thin  and  cheap  aroma.  A  wire 
shovel  for  popping  corn  stood  at  one  side  of  the  big 
brick  fireplace,  and  on  the  hearth  there  was  a  small 
pile  of  half  shelled  red  and  yellow  ears.  Between  the 
two  long  windows  a  tall  mahogany  clock,  one  of  the 
few  pieces  left  by  the  collector  of  old  furniture,  ticked 
with  a  loud,  monotonous  sound,  which  seemed  to 
increase  in  volume  with  each  passage  of  the  hands. 


102  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Did  you  hear  any  news,  my  dear?"  inquired 
Beverly,  as  Emily  entered,  for  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  he  rarely  left  his  fireside,  he  was  an  insatiable 
consumer  of  small  bits  of  gossip. 

"I  didn't  see  anybody,"  answered  Emily  in  her 
cheerful  voice.  "Shall  I  pour  the  coffee?" 

She  went  to  the  head  of  the  table,  while  her 
brother,  after  shelling  an  ear  of  corn  into  the  wire 
shovel,  began  shaking  it  slowly  over  the  hickory 
log. 

"I  thought  you  might  have  heard  if  Milly  Trend 
had  really  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  that  young 
tobacco  merchant,"  he  observed. 

Before  Emily  could  reply  the  door  opened  and  the 
three  children  rushed  in,  pursued  by  Aunt  Mehitable, 
who  announced  that  "Miss  Meely"  had  gone  to  bed 
with  one  of  her  sick  headaches  and  would  not  come 
down  to  supper.  The  information  afforded  Beverly 
some  concern,  and  he  rose  to  leave  the  room  with  the 
intention  of  going  upstairs  to  his  wife's  chamber;  but 
observing,  as  he  did  so,  that  the  corn  was  popping 
finely,  he  sat  down  again  and  devoted  his  atten- 
tion to  the  shovel,  which  he  began  to  shake  more 
rapidly. 

"The  terrapin's  sick,  papa,"  piped  one  of  the 
children,  a  little  girl  called  Lila,  as  she  pulled  back  her 
chair  with  a  grating  noise  and  slipped  into  her  seat. 
"Do  you  s'pose  it  would  like  a  little  molasses  for  its 
supper?" 

"Terrapins  don't  eat  molasses,"  said  the  boy,  whose 
name  was  Blair.  "They  eat  flies — I  've  seen  'em." 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  103 

My  terrapin  shan't  eat  flies,"  protested  Bella, 
the  second  little  girl. 

"It  ain't  your  terrapin!" 

"It  is." 

"It  ain't  her  terrapin,  is  it,  papa?" 

Beverly,  having  finished  his  task,  unfastened  the 
lid  of  the  shovel  v/ith  the  poker,  and  suggested  that 
the  terrapin  might  try  a  little  popcorn  for  a  change. 
As  he  stood  there  with  his  white  hair  and  his  flushed 
face  in  the  red  firelight,  he  made  a  picture  of  beautiful 
and  serene  domesticity. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  'd  get  quite  a  taste  for 
popcorn  if  you  could  once  persuade  him  to  try  it," 
he  remarked,  his  mind  having  wandered  whimsically 
from  his  wife  to  the  terrapin. 

Emily  had  given  the  children  batter-bread  and 
buttermilk,  and  she  sat  now  regarding  her  brother's 
profile  as  it  was  limned  boldy  in  shadow  against  the 
quivering  flames.  It  was  impossible,  she  discovered, 
to  surve}^  Beverly's  character  with  softness  or  his 
profile  with  severity. 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  ventured  presently,  after 
a  wholesome  effort  to  achieve  diplomacy,  "that  you 
might  try  to-morrow  to  spade  the  seed  rows  in  the 
garden.  Adam  can't  find  anybody,  and  if  the  corn 
is  n't  dropped  this  week  we  '11  probably  get  none 
until  late  in  the  summer." 

"  'I  cannot  dig,  to  beg  I  am  ashamed,'  "  quoted 
Beverly,  as  he  drank  his  coffee.  "It  would  lay  me 
up  for  a  week,  Emily,  I  am  surprised  that  you  ask  it." 

She  was  surprised  herself,  the  moment  after  she 


io4  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

had  put  the  question,  so  hopeless  appeared  any 
attempt  to  bend  Beverly  to  utilitarian  purposes. 

"Well,  the  tomatoes  which  I  had  counted  on  for 
the  market  will  come  too  late,"  she  said  with  a  barely 
suppressed  impatience  in  her  voice. 

"  I  should  n't  worry  about  it  if  I  were  you,"returned 
Beverly,  "there's  nothing  that  puts  wrinkles  in  a 
pretty  face  so  soon  as  little  worries.  I  remember 
Uncle  Bolingbroke  (he  used  to  be  my  ideal  as  a  little 
boy)  told  me  once  that  he  had  lived  to  be  upward 
of  ninety  on  the  worries  from  which  he  had  been  saved. 
As  a  small  child  I  was  taken  to  see  him  once  when 
he  had  just  come  to  absolute  ruin  and  had  been 
obliged  to  sell  his  horses  and  his  house  and  even  his 
wife's  jewellery  for  debt.  A  red  flag  was  flying  at  the 
gate,  but  inside  sat  Uncle  Bolingbioke,  drinking 
port  wine  and  cracking  nuts  with  two  of  his  old  cronies. 
'Yes,  I  've  lost  everything,  my  boy,'  he  cried,  'but  it 
does  n't  worry  me  a  bit! '  At  that  instant  I  remember 
noticing  that  his  forehead  was  the  smoothest  I  had 
ever  seen." 

"But  his  wife  had  to  take  in  dressmaking,"  com- 
mented Emily,  "and  his  children  grew  up  without  a 
particle  of  education." 

"Ah,  so  they  did,"  admitted  Beverly,  with  sad- 
ness, "the  details  had  escapd  me." 

As  they  had  escaped  him  with  equal  success  all 
his  life,  the  fact  seemed  to  Emily  hardly  deserving 
of  comment,  and  leaving  him  to  his  supper,  she 
went  upstairs  to  find  Mrs.  Brooke  prostrate,  in  a 
cold  room,  with  her  head  swathed  in  camphor  ban- 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  105 

dages.  In  answer  to  Emily's  inquiries,  she  moaned 
plaintively  that  the  pantry  shelves  needed  scouring 
and  that  she  must  get  up  at  daybreak  and  begin  the 
work.  "I've  just  remembered  lying  here  that  I 
planned  to  clean  them  last  week,"  she  said  excitedly, 
"  and  will  you  remind  me,  Emily,  as  soon  as  I  get 
up  that  Beverly's  old  brown  velveteen  coat  needs  a 
patch  at  the  elbow?" 

"Don't  think  of  such  things  now,  Amelia,  there's 
plenty  of  time.  You  are  shivering  all  over — I  '11  start 
the  fire  in  a  moment.  It  has  turned  quite  cool  again. " 

"  But  I  wanted  to  save  the  pine  knots  until  Beverly 
came  up,"  sighed  Mrs.  Brooke,  "  he  is  so  fond  of  them." 

Without  replying  to  her  nervous  protest,  Emily 
knelt  on  the  hearth  and  kindled  a  blaze  which  leaped 
rosily  over  the  knots  of  resinous  pine.  Of  the  two 
family  failings  with  which  she  was  obliged  to  con- 
tend, she  had  long  ago  decided  that  Beverly's  selfish- 
ness was  less  harmful  in  its  results  than  Amelia's 
self-sacrifice.  Inordinate  at  all  times,  it  waxed 
positively  violent  during  her  severe  attacks  of 
headache,  and  between  two  spasms  of  pain  her 
feverish  imagination  conjured  up  dozens  of  small 
self-denials  which  served  to  increase  her  discomfort 
while  they  conferred  no  possible  benefit  upon  either 
her  husband  or  her  children.  Her  temperament  had 
fitted  her  for  immolation;  but  the  character  of  the 
age  in  which  she  lived  had  compelled  her  to  embrace 
a  domestic  rather  than  a  religious  martyrdom.  The 
rack  would  have  been  to  her  morally  a  bed  of  roses, 
and  some  exalted  grace  belonging  to  the  high  destiny 


106  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

that  she  had  missed  was  visible  at  times  in  her 
faded  gray  eyes  and  impassive  features. 

"Mehitable  brought  me  an  egg,"  she  groaned 
presently,  growing  more  comfortable  in  spite  of  her 
resolve,  as  the  rosy  fire-light  penetrated  into  the  chill 
gloom  where  she  lay,  "but  I  sent  it  down  to  Blair — I 
heard  him  coughing." 

"  He  did  n't  want  it.  There  was  plenty  of  batter- 
bread." 

"Yes,  but  the  poor  boy  is  fond  of  eggs  and  he  so 
seldom  has  one.  It  is  very  sad.  Emily,  have  you 
noticed  how  inert  and  lifeless  Mr.  Brooke  has  grown? " 

''It's  nothing  new,  Amelia,  he  has  always  been 
that  way.  Can't  you  sleep  now?" 

"Oh,  but  if  you  could  have  seen  him  when  we 
became  engaged,  Emily — such  life!  such  spirits!  I 
remember  the  first  time  I  dined  at  your  father's — that 
was  before  Beverly's  mother  died,  so,  of  course,  your 
mother  was  n't  even  thought  of  in  the  family.  I 
suppose  second  marriages  are  quite  proper,  since  the 
Lord  permits  them,  but  they  always  seem  to  me  like 
trying  to  sing  the  same  hymn  over  again  with  equal 
fervour.  Well,  I  was  going  to  say  that  when  your 
father  asked  me  what  part  of  the  fowl  I  preferred 
and  I  answered  'dark  meat,  sir,'  he  fairly  rapped  the 
table  in  his  delight:  '  Oh,  Amelia,  what  a  capital  wife 
you  11  make  for  Beverly,'  he  cried,  'if  you  will  only 
continue  to  prefer  dark  meat ! ' 

She  stopped  breathlessly,  lay  silent  for  a  moment, 
and  then  began  to  moan  softly  with  pain.  Emily 
swept  the  hearth,  and  after  putting  on  a  fresh  log, 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  xo? 

went  out,  closing  the  door  after  her.  There  was 
no  light  in  her  room,  but  she  reflected  with  a  kind 
of  desperation  that  there  was  no  Beverly  and  no 
Amelia.  The  weight  of  the  family  had  left  her 
bruised  and  helpless,  yet  she  knew  that  she  must  go 
downstairs  again,  remove  the  supper  things,  and  send 
the  three  resisting  children  o&  to  bed.  She  was  quite 
equal  to  the  task  she  had  undertaken,  yet  there  were 
moments  when,  because  of  her  youth  and  her  vitality, 
she  found  it  harder  to  control  her  temper  than  to 
accomplish  her  work. 

At  ten  o'clock,  when  she  had  coaxed  the  children 
to  sleep,  and  persuaded  Amelia  to  drink  a  cup  of 
gruel,  she  came  to  her  room  again  and  began  to  undress 
slowly  by  the  full  moonlight  wrhich  streamed  through 
the  window.  Outside,  beyond  the  lilac  bushes,  she 
could  see  the  tangled  garden,  with  the  dried  stubble 
of  last  year's  corn  protruding  from  the  unspaded 
rows.  This  was  the  last  sight  upon  which  her  eyes 
turned  before  she  climbed  into  the  high  tester  bed 
and  fell  into  the  prompt  and  untroubled  sleep  of 
youth. 

Awaking  at  six  o'clock  she  went  again  to  the 
window,  and  at  the  first  glance  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  must  have  slipped  back  into  some  orderly  and 
quiet  dream — for  the  corn  rows  which  had  presented 
a  blighted  aspect  under  the  moonlight  were  now 
spaded  and  harrowed  into  furrows  ready  for  planting. 
The  suggestion  that  Beverly  had  prepared  a  surprise 
for  her  occurred  first  to  her  mind,  but  she  dismissed 
this  the  next  instant  and  thought  of  Adam,  Micah, 


io8  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

even  of  the  demented  Aunt  Mehi table.  The  memory 
of  the  fairy  godmother  in  the  story  book  brought  a 
laugh  to  her  lips,  and  as  she  dressed  herself  and  ran 
downstairs  to  the  garden  gate,  she  half  expected  to 
see  the  pumpkin  chariot  disappearing  down  the  weed- 
grown  path  and  over  the  fallen  fence.  The  lilac 
blossoms  shed  a  delicious  perfume  into  her  face,  and 
leaning  against  the  rotting  posts  of  the  gate,  she 
looked  with  mingled  delight  and  wonder  upon  the 
freshly  turned  earth,  which  flushed  faintly  pink  in 
the  sunshine.  A  heavy  dew  lay  over  the  landscape 
and  as  the  sun  rose  slowly  higher  the  mist  was  drawn 
back  from  the  green  fields  like  a  sheet  of  gauze  that 
is  gathered  up. 

"Beverly?  Micah?  Mehitable?"  each  name  was  a 
question  she  put  to  herself,  and  after  each  she 
answered  decisively,  "No,  it  is  impossible."  Micah, 
who  appeared  at  the  moment,  doting,  half  blind 
and  wholly  rheumatic,  shook  his  aged  head  helplessly 
in  response  to  her  eager  inquiries.  There  was  clearly 
no  help  to  be  had  from  him  except  the  bewildered 
assistance  he  rendered  in  the  afternoon  by  following 
on  her  footsteps  with  a  split  basket  while  she  dropped 
the  grains  of  corn  into  the  opened  furrows.  His  help 
in  this  case  even  was  hardly  more  than  a  hindrance, 
for  twice  in  his  slow  progress  he  stumbled  and  fell 
over  a  trailing  brier  in  the  path,  and  Emily  was 
obliged  to  stop  her  work  and  gather  up  the  grain 
which  he  had  scattered. 

"Dese  yer  ole  briers  is  des  a-layin'  out  fur  you," 
he  muttered  as  he  sat  on  the  ground  rubbing  the 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  109 

variegated  patch  on  his  rheumatic  knee.  When  the 
planting  was  over  he  went  grumbling  back  to  his 
cabin,  while  Emily  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the 
garden  path  and  dreamed  of  the  vegetables  which 
would  ripen  for  the  market.  In  the  midst  of  her 
business  calculations  she  remembered  the  little 
congregation  in  the  green  field  on  Sunday  afternoon 
and  the  look  of  generous  enthusiasm  in  the  face 
of  the  man  who  passed  her  in  the  road.  Why  had 
she  thought  of  him?  she  wondered  idly,  and  why 
should  that  group  of  listeners  gathered  out  of  doors 
in  the  faint  sunshine  awake  in  her  a  sentiment 
which  was  associated  with  some  religious  emotion 
of  which  she  had  been  half  unconscious? 

The  next  night  she  awoke  from  a  profound  sleep 
with  the  same  memory  in  her  mind,  and  turning  on 
her  pillow,  lay  wide  awake  in  the  moonlight,  which 
brought  with  it  a  faint  spring  chill  from  the  dew 
outside.  On  the  ivy  the  light  shone  almost  like 
dawn,  and  as  she  could  not  fall  asleep  again,  she  rose 
presently,  and  slipping  into  her  flannel  dressing- 
gown,  crossed  to  the  window  and  looked  out  upon 
the  shining  fields,  the  garden  and  the  blossoming 
lilacs  at  the  gate.  The  shadow  of  the  lilacs  lay  thick 
and  black  along  the  garden  walk,  and  her  eyes  were 
resting  upon  them,  when  it  seemed  to  her  that  a 
portion  of  the  darkness  detached  itself  and  melted 
out  into  the  moonlight.  At  first  she  perceived  only 
the  moving  shadow;  then  gradually  a  figure  was 
outlined  on  the  bare  rows  of  the  garden,  and  as  her 
eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  light,  she  saw  that  the 


no  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

figure  had  assumed  a  human  shape,  though  it  was 
still  followed  so  closely  by  its  semblance  upon  the 
ground  that  it  was  impossible  at  a  distance  to  distin- 
guish the  living  worker  from  his  airy  double.  Yet 
she  realised  instantly  that  her  mysterious  gardener 
was  at  work  before  her  eyes,  and  hastening  into  her 
clothes,  she  caught  up  her  cape  from  a  chair,  and 
started  toward  the  door  with  an  impulsive  deter- 
mination to  discover  his  identity.  With  her  hand  on 
the  knob,  she  hesitated  and  stopped,  full  of  perplexity, 
upon  the  threshold.  Since  he  had  wished  to  remain 
undiscovered  was  it  fair,  she  questioned,  to  thrust 
recognition  upon  his  kindness?  On  the  other  hand 
was  it  not  more  than  unfair — was  it  not  positively 
ungrateful — to  allow  his  work  to  pass  without  any  sign 
of  acceptance  or  appreciation?  In  the  chill  white 
moonlight  outside  she  could  see  the  pointed  tops  of 
the  cedars  rising  like  silver  spires.  As  the  boughs 
moved  the  wind  entered,  bringing  mingled  odours 
of  cedar  berries,  lilacs  and  freshly  turned  soil.  For 
an  instant  longer  her  hesitation  lasted ;  then  throwing 
aside  her  cape,  she  undressed  quickly,  without  glanc- 
ing again  down  into  the  garden.  When  she  fell 
asleep  now  it  was  to  dream  of  the  shadowy  gardener 
spading  in  the  moonlight  among  the  lilacs. 


CHAPTER  X 
His  NEIGHBOUR'S  GARDEN 

IN  HIS  nightly  work  in  the  Brookes'  garden,  Ordway 
was  prompted  at  first  by  a  mere  boyish  impulse  to 
repay  people  whose  bread  he  had  eaten  and  in  whose 
straw  he  had  slept.  But  at  the  end  of  the  first  hour's 
labour  the  beauty  of  the  moonlight  wrought  its  spell 
upon  him,  and  he  felt  that  the  fragrance  of  the  lilacs 
went  like  strong  wine  to  his  head.  So  the  next 
night  he  borrowed  Mrs.  Twine's  spade  again  and 
went  back  for  the  pure  pleasure  of  the  exercise; 
and  the  end  of  the  week  found  him  still  digging  among 
the  last  year's  plants  in  the  loamy  beds.  By  spading 
less  than  two  hours  a  night,  he  had  turned  the  soil  of 
half  the  garden  before  Sunday  put  a  stop  to  his  work. 

On  his  last  visit,  he  paused  at  the  full  of  the  moon, 
and  stood  looking  almost  with  sadness  at  the  blos- 
soming lilacs  and  the  overgrown  path  powdered  with 
wild  flowers  which  had  strayed  in  through  the  broken 
fence.  For  the  hours  he  had  spent  there  the  place 
had  given  him  back  his  freedom  and  his  strength  and 
even  a  reminiscent  sentiment  of  his  youth.  While 
he  worked  Lydia  had  been  only  a  little  farther  off  in 
the  beauty  of  the  moonlight,  and  he  had  felt  her 
presence  with  a  spiritual  sense  which  was  keener 
than  the  sense  of  touch. 

in 


ii2  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

As  he  drew  his  spade  for  the  last  time  from  the 
earth,  he  straightened  himself,  and  standing  erect, 
faced  the  cool  wind  which  tossed  the  hair  back  from 
his  heated  forehead.  At  the  moment  he  was  con- 
tent with  the  moonlight  and  the  lilacs  and  the  wind 
that  blew  over  the  spring  fields,  and  it  seemed  easy 
enough  to  let  the  future  rest  with  the  past  in  the 
hands  of  God.  Swinging  the  spade  at  his  side,  he 
lowered  his  eyes  and  moved  a  step  toward  the  open 
gate.  Then  he  stopped  short,  for  he  saw  that  Emily 
Brooke  was  standing  there  between  the  old  posts 
under  the  purple  and  white  lilacs. 

"  It  seemed  too  ungrateful  to  accept  such  a  service 
and  not  even  to  say  'thank  you,'  "  she  remarked 
gravely.  There  was  a  drowsy  sound  in  her  voice; 
her  lids  hung  heavily  like  a  child's  over  her  brown 
•eyes,  and  her  hair  was  flattened  into  little  curls  on 
one  side  by  the  pressure  of  the  pillow. 

"It  has  been  a  pleasure  to  me,"  he  answered,  "so 
I  deserve  no  thanks  for  doing  the  thing  that  I 
enjoyed." 

Drawing  nearer  he  stood  before  her  with  the  spade 
on  his  shoulder  and  his  head  uncovered.  The  smell 
of  the  earth  hung  about  him,  and  even  in  the  moon- 
light she  could  see  that  his  blue  eyes  looked  almost 
gay.  She  felt  all  at  once  that  he  was  younger,  larger, 
more  masculine  than  she  had  at  first  believed. 

"And  yet  it  is  work,"  she  said  in  her  voice  of  cheer- 
ful authority,  "and  sorely  needed  work  at  that. 
I  can  thank  you  even  though  I  cannot  understand 
why  you  have  done  it." 


HIS  NEIGHBOUR'S  GARDEN  113 

"Let's  put  it  down  to  my  passion  to  improve 
things,"  he  responded  with  a  whimsical  gravity, 
"don't  you  think  the  garden  as  I  first  saw  it  justified 
that  explanation  of  my  behaviour?" 

"The  explanation,  yes — but  not  you,"  she 
answered,  smiling. 

"Then  let  my  work  justify  itself.  I've  made  a 
neat  job  of  it,  haven't  I?" 

"  It 's  more  than  neat,  it 's  positively  ornamental," 
she  replied,  "but  even  your  success  doesn't  explain 
your  motive." 

"Well,  the  truth  is — if  you  will  have  it — I  needed 
exercise." 

"You  might  have  walked." 

"That  doesn't  reach  the  shoulders — there's  the 
trouble." 

She  laughed  with  an  easy  friendliness  which 
struck  him  as  belonging  to  her  gallant  manner. 

"Oh,  I  assure  you  I  shan't  insist  upon  a  reason, 
I  'm  too  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  returned,  coming 
inside  the  gate.  "Indeed,  I  'm  too  good  a  farmer, 
I  believe,  to  insist  upon  a  reason  anyway.  Provi- 
dence disposes  and  I  accept  with  thanks.  I  may 
wish,  though,  that  the  coloured  population  shared 
your  leaning  toward  the  spade.  By  the  way,  I  see 
it  is  n't  mine.  It  looks  too  shiny." 

"I  borrowed  it  from  Mrs.  Twine,  and  it  is  my 
suspicion  that  she  scrubs  it  every  night." 

"In  that  case  I  wonder  that  she  lets  it  go  out  to 
other  people's  gardens. " 

"She  doesn't  usually,"  he  laughed  as  he  spoke. 


U4  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"but  you  see  I  am  a  very  useful  person  to  Mrs. 
Twine.  She  talks  at  her  husband  by  way  of  me." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Emily.  "Well,  I'm  much 
obliged  to  her." 

"You  needn't  be.  She  hadn't  the  remotest  idea 
where  it  went." 

Her  merriment,  joining  with  his,  brought  them  sud- 
denly together  in  a  feeling  of  good  fellowship. 

"  So  you  don't  like  divided  thanks,"  she  commented 
gaily. 

"Not  when  they  are  undeserved,"  he  answered, 
"as  they  are  in  this  case." 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent;  then  going  slowly 
back  to  the  gate,  she  turned  there  and  looked  at  him 
wonderingly,  he  thought. 

"After  all,  it  must  have  been  a  good  wind  that  blew 
you  to  Tappahannock,"  she  observed. 

Her  friendliness — which  impressed  him  as  that  of 
a  creature  who  had  met  no  rebuffs  or  disappointments 
from  human  nature,  made  an  impetuous,  almost 
childlike,  appeal  to  his  confidence. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  night  I  slept  in  your  barn? " 
he  asked  suddenly. 

She  bent  down  to  pick  up  a  broken  spray  of  lilac. 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"Well,  I  was  at  the  parting  of  the  ways  that  night 
— I  was  beaten  down,  desperate,  hopeless.  Some- 
thing in  your  kindness  and — yes,  and  in  your  courage, 
too,  put  new  life  into  me,  and  the  next  morning  I 
turned  back  to  Tappahannock.  But  for  you  I  should 
still  have  followed  the  road." 


HIS  NEIGHBOUR'S  GARDEN  115 

"It  is  more  likely  to  have  been  the  cup  of  coffee," 
she  said  in  her  frank,  almost  boyish  way. 

"There  's  something  in  that,  of  course."  he 
answered  quietly.  "I  was  hungry,  God  knows,  but  I 
was  more  than  hungry,  I  was  hurt.  It  was  all  my 
fault,  you  understand — I  had  made  an  awful  mess 
of  things,  and  I  had  to  begin  again  low  down — at 
the  very  bottom."  It  was  in  his  mind  to  tell  her 
the  truth  then,  from  the  moment  of  his  fall  to  the 
day  that  he  had  returned  to  Tappahannock;  but  he 
was  schooling  himself  hard  to  resist  the  sudden 
impulses  which  had  wrecked  his  life,  so  checking  his 
words  with  an  effort,  he  lowered  the  spade  from  his 
shoulder,  and  leaning  upon  the  handle,  stood  waiting 
for  her  to  speak. 

"Then  you  began  again  at  Baxter's  warehouse  the 
morning  afterward?"  she  asked. 

"I  had  gone  wrong  from  the  very  base  of  things, 
you  see,"  he  answered. 

"And  you  are  making  a  new  foundation  now?" 

"I  am  trying  to.  They  're  decent  enough  folk  in 
Tappahannock,  aren't  they?"  he  added  cheerfully. 

"  Perhaps  they  are, "she  responded,  a  little  wistfully, 
"but  I  should  like  to  have  a  glimpse  of  the  world  out- 
side. I  should  like  most,  I  think,  to  see  New  York." 

" New  York? "  he  repeated  blankly,  "you  've  never 
been  there?" 

"I?  Oh,  no,  I  've  never  been  out  of  Virginia,  except 
when  I  taught  school  once  in  Georgia." 

The  simple  dignity  with  which  she  spoke  caused 
him  to  look  at  her  suddenly  as  if  he  had  taken  her  in 


u6  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

for  the  first  time.  Perfectly  unabashed  by  her  dis- 
closure, she  stood  before  him  as  calmly  as  she  would 
have  stood,  he  felt,  had  he  possessed  a  thousand 
amazed  pairs  of  eyes.  Her  confidence  belonged 
less  to  personal  experience,  he  understood  now, 
than  to  some  inherited  ideal  of  manner — of  social 
values;  and  it  seemed  to  him  at  the  moment  that 
there  was  a  breadth,  a  richness  in  her  aspect  which 
was  like  the  atmosphere  of  rare  old  libraries. 

"You  have,  I  dare  say,  read  a  great  many  books," 
he  remarked. 

"A  great  many — oh,  yes,  we  kept  our  books  almost 
to  the  last.  We  still  have  the  entire  south  wall  in 
the  library — the  English  classics  are  there." 

"I  imagined  so,"  he  answered,  and  as  he  looked 
at  her  he  realised  that  the  world  she  lived  in  was  not 
the  narrow,  provincial  world  of  Tappahannock,  with 
its  dusty  warehouses,  its  tobacco  scented  streets, 
its  red  clay  roads. 

She  had  turned  from  the  gate,  but  before  moving 
away  she  looked  back  and  bowed  to  him  with  her 
gracious  Southern  courtesy,  as  she  had  done  that  first 
night  in  the  barn. 

"Good-night.  I  cannot  thank  you  enough,"  she 
said. 

"Good-night.  I  am  only  paying  my  debt,"  he 
answered. 

As  he  spoke  she  entered  the  house,  and  with  the 
spade  on  his  shoulder  he  passed  down  the  avenue 
and  struck  out  vigorously  upon  the  road  to  Tappa- 
hannock. 


HIS  NEIGHBOUR'S  GARDEN  117 

When  he  came  down  to  breakfast  some  hours  later, 
Mrs.  Twine  informed  him  that  a  small  boy  had  come 
at  daybreak  with  a  message  to  him  from  Bullfinch's 
Hollow. 

"Of  course  it  ain't  any  of  my  business,  suh,"  she 
continued  impressively,  "but  if  I  were  you  I  would  n't 
pay  any  attention  to  Kit  Berry  or  his  messages. 
Viciousness  is  jest  as  ketchin'  as  disease,  that  's  what 
I  say,  an'  you  can't  go  steppin'  aroun'  careless  whar 
it  is  in  the  air  an'  expect  to  git  away  with  a  whole 
morality.  'T  ain't  as  if  you  were  a  female,  either,  for 
if  I  do  say  it  who  should  not,  they  don't  seem  to  be  so 
thin-skinned  whar  temptation  is  concerned.  'T  was 
only  two  weeks  ago  last  Saturday  when  I  went  to 
drag  Bill  away  from  that  thar  low  lived  saloon 
(the  very  same  you  broke  into  through  the  window, 
suh)  that  Timmas  Kelly  had  the  imperence  to  say 
to  me,  'This  is  no  place  for  respectable  women,  Mrs. 
Twine.'  'An,  indeed,  I  'd  like  to  know,  Mr.  Kelly,' 
said  I  to  him,  '  if  it 's  too  great  a  strain  for  the  women, 
how  the  virtue  of  the  men  have  stood  it?  For  what 
a  woman  can't  resist,  I  reckon,  it 's  jest  as  well  for  a 
man  not  to  be  tempted  with.'  He  shet  up  then  tight 
as  a  keg — I  'd  wish  you  'd  have  seen  him." 

"In  his  place  I  should  probably  have  done  the 
same,"  admitted  Ordway,  as  he  took  his  coffee  from 
her  hands.  He  was  upon  excellent  terms  with  Mrs. 
Twine,  with  the  children,  and  even  with  the  disrepu- 
table Bill. 

"Wall,  I  've  done  a  lot  o'promisin',like  other  folks," 
pursued  Mrs.  Twine,  turning  from  the  table  to  pick 


n8  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

up  a  pair  of  Canty 's  little  breeches  into  which  she 
was  busily  inserting  a  patch,  "an'  like  them,  I  reckon, 
I  was  mostly  lyin'  when  I  did  it.  Thar's  a  good  deal 
said  at  the  weddin'  about  '  love  '  and  '  honour  '  and 
1  obey,'  but  for  all  the  slick  talk  of  the  parson,  expe- 
rience has  taught  me  that  sich  things  are  feelin's  an' 
not  whalebones.  Now  if  thar  's  a  woman  on  this 
earth  that  could  manage  to  love,  honour  and  obey 
Bill  Twine.  I  'd  jest  like  for  her  to  step  right  up  an' 
show  her  face,  for  she  's  a  bigger  fool  than  I  'd  have 
thought  even  a  female  could  boast  of  bein'.  As 
for  me,  suh,  a  man's  a  man  same  as  a  horse  is  a  horse, 
an'  if  I  'm  goin'  to  set  about  honourin'  any  animal 
on  o'count  of  its  size  I  reckon  I'd  as  soon  turn  roun' 
an*  honour  a  whale." 

"  But  you  must  n't  judge  us  all  by  our  friend  Bill," 
remarked  Ordway,  picking  up  the  youngest  child 
with  a  laugh,  "remember  his  weakness,  and  be 
charitable  to  the  rest  of  us." 

Mrs.  Twine  spread  the  pair  of  little  breeches  upon 
her  knee  and  slapped  them  into  shape  as  energetically 
as  if  they  had  contained  the  person  of  their  infant 
wearer. 

"As  for  that,  suh,"  she  rejoined,  "so  far  as  I  can 
see  one  man  differs  from  another  only  in  the  set  of 
his  breeches — for  the  best  an'  the  worst  of  'em  are 
made  of  the  same  stuff,  an'  underneath  thar  skin 
they're  all  pure  natur.  I've  had  three  of  'em  for 
better  or  for  worse,  an'  I  reckon  that's  as  many 
specimens  as  you  generally  jedge  things  by  in  a 
museum.  A  weak  woman  would  have  kept  a  widow 


HIS  NEIGHBOUR'S  GARDEN  119 

after  my  marriage  with  Bob  Cotton,  the  brother  of 
William,  suh — but  I  ain't  weak,  that's  one  thing 
can  be  said  for  me — so  when  I  saw  my  opportunity 
in  the  person  of  Mike  Frazier,  I  up  an'  said:  'Wall, 
thar  's  this  much  to  be  said  for  marriage — whether 
you  do  or  whether  you  don't  you  '11  be  sure  to  regret 
it,  an'  the  regret  for  things  you  have  done  ain't  quite 
so  forlorn  an'  impty  headed  a  feelin'  as  the  regret  for 
things  you  haven't.'  Then  I  married  him,  an' when 
he  died  an'  Bill  came  along  I  married  him,  too.  Sech 
is  my  determination  when  I  've  once  made  up  my 
mind,  that  if  Bill  died  I  'd  most  likely  begin  to  look 
out  for  another.  But  if  I  do,  suh,  I  tell  you  now 
that  I  'd  try  to  start  the  next  with  a  little  pure 
despisin' — for  thar  's  got  to  come  a  change  in  marriage 
one  way  or  another,  that 's  natur,  an'  I  reckon  it 's 
as  well  to  have  it  change  for  the  better  instead  of  the 
worst." 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  her,  and  when 
she  had  answered  it,  she  looked  back  over  her  shoulder 
to  tell  Ordway  that  Mr.  Banks  had  stopped  by  to 
walk  downtown  with  him. 

With  a  whispered  promise  to  return  with  a  pocket- 
full  of  lemon  drops,  Ordway  slipped  the  child  from 
his  knee,  and  hurriedly  picking  up  his  hat,  went  out  to 
join  Banks  upon  the  front  steps.  Since  the  day  upon 
which  the  two  men  had  met  at  a  tobacco  auction 
Banks  had  attached  himself  to  Ordway  with  a  devo- 
tion not  unlike  that  of  a  faithful  dog.  At  his  first 
meeting  he  had  confided  to  the  older  man  the  story 
of  his  youthful  struggles,  and  the  following  day  he 


120  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

had  unburdened  himself  with  rapture  of  his  passion 
for  Milly. 

"I've  just  had  breakfast  with  the  Trends,"  he 
said,  "so  I  thought  I  might  as  well  join  you  on  your 
way  down.  Mighty  little  doing  in  tobacco  now, 
isn't  there?" 

"Well,  I'm  pretty  busy  with  the  accounts," 
responded  Ordway.  "By  the  way,  Banks,  I  Ve  had 
a  message  from  Bullfinch's  Hollow.  Kit  Berry 
wants  me  to  come  over." 

"I  like  his  brass.     Why  can't  he  come  to  you?" 

"He's  sick  it  seems,  so  I  thought  I'd  go  down 
there  some  time  in  the  afternoon." 

They  had  reached  Trend's  gate  as  he  spoke,  to 
find  Milly  herself  standing  there  in  her  highest  colour 
and  her  brightest  ribbon.  As  Banks  came  up  with 
her,  he  introduced  Ordway,  who  would  have  passed 
on  had  not  Milly  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Father  was  just  saying  how  much  he  should  like 
to  meet  you,  Mr.  Smith,"  she  remarked,  hoping  while 
she  uttered  the  words  that  she  would  remember  to 
instruct  Jasper  Trend  to  live  up  to  them  when  the 
opportunity  afforded.  "Perhaps  you  will  come 
in  to  supper  with  us  to-night?  Mr.  Banks  will  be 
here." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ordway  with  the  boyish  smile 
which  had  softened  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Twine,  "but  I 
was  just  telling  Banks  I  had  to  go  over  to  Bullfinch's 
Hollow  late  in  the  afternoon." 

"Somebody's  sick  there,  you  know,"  explained 
Banks  in  reply  to  Milly 's  look  of  bewilderment. 


HIS  NEIGHBOUR'S  GARDEN  121 

"  He  's  the  greatest  fellow  alive  for  missionarying  to 
sick  people." 

"Oh,  you  see  it 's  easier  to  hit  a  man  when  he  's 
down,"  commented  Ordway,  drily.  He  was  looking 
earnestly  at  Milly  Trend,  who  grew  prettier  and  pinker 
beneath  his  gaze,  yet  at  the  moment  he  was  only 
wondering  if  Alice's  bright  blue  eyes  could  be  as  lovely 
as  the  softer  ones  of  the  girl  before  him. 

As  they  went  down  the  hill  a  moment  afterward 
Banks  asked  his  companion,  a  little  reproachfully, 
why  he  had  refused  the  invitation  to  supper. 

"After  all  I  've  told  you  about  Milly,"  he  con- 
cluded, "I  hoped  you  'd  want  to  meet  her  when  you 
got  the  chance." 

Ordway  glanced  down  at  his  clothes.  "My  dear 
Banks,  I  'm  a  working  man,  and  to  tell  the  truth  I 
could  n't  manufacture  an  appearance — that 's  the  best 
excuse  I  have." 

"All  the  same  I  wish  you'd  go.  Milly  wouldn't 
care." 

"Milly  mightn't,  but  you  would  have  blushed  for 
me.  I  could  n't  have  supported  a  comparison  with 
your  turtle-dove." 

Banks  reddened  hotly,  while  he  put  his  hand  to  his 
cravat  with  a  conscious  laugh. 

"Oh,  you  don't  need  turtle-doves  and  things," 
he  answered,  "there  's  something  about  you — I  don't 
know  what  it  is — that  takes  the  place  of  them." 

"The  place  of  diamond  turtle-doves  and  violet 
stockings?"  laughed  Ordway  with  good-humoured 
raillery. 


122  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"You  wouldn't  be  a  bit  better  looking  if  you  wore 
them — Milly  says  so." 

"  I  'm  much  obliged  to  Milly  and  on  the  whole  I  'm 
inclined  to  think  she  's  right.  Do  you  know,"  he 
added,  "  I  'in  not  quite  sure  that  you  are  improved  by 
them  yourself,  except  for  the  innocent  enjoyment 
they  afford  you." 

"  But  I  'm  such  a  common  looking  chap,  "said  Banks, 
"I  need  an  air." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  returned  Ordway,  while  his 
look  went  like  sunshine  to  the  other's  heart,  "if  you 
want  to  know  what  you  are — well,  you  're  a  down- 
right trump!" 

He  stopped  before  the  brick  archway  of  Baxter's 
warehouse,  and  an  instant  later,  Banks,  looking 
after  him  as  he  turned  away,  vowed  in  the  luminous 
simplicity  of  his  soul  that  if  the  chance  ever  came 
to  him  he  "would  go  to  hell  and  back  again  for  the 
sake  of  Smith." 


CHAPTER  XI 
BULLFINCH'S  HOLLOW 

AT  FIVE  o'clock  Ordway  followed  the  uneven 
board  walk  to  the  end  of  the  main  street,  and  then 
turning  into  a  little  footpath  which  skirted  the 
railroad  track,  he  came  presently  to  the  abandoned 
field  known  in  Tappahannock  as  Bullfinch's  Hollow. 
Beyond  a  disorderly  row  of  negro  hovels,  he  found 
a  small  frame  cottage,  which  he  recognised  as  the 
house  to  which  he  had  brought  Kit  Berry  on  the 
night  when  he  had  dragged  him  bodily  from  Kelly's 
saloon.  In  response  to  his  knock  the  door  was 
opened  by  the  same  weeping  woman — a  small  withered 
person,  with  snapping  black  eyes  and  sparse  gray 
hair  brushed  fiercely  against  her  scalp,  where  it  clung 
so  closely  that  it  outlined  the  bones  beneath.  At 
sight  of  Ordway  a  smile  curved  her  sunken  mouth; 
and  she  led  the  way  through  the  kitchen  to  the 
door  of  a  dimly  lighted  room  at  the  back,  where  a 
boy  of  eighteen  years  tossed  deliriously  on  a  pallet  in 
one  corner.  It  was  poverty  in  its  direst,  its  most 
abject,  results,  Ordway  saw  at  once  as  his  eyes  trav- 
elled around  the  smoke  stained,  unplastered  walls 
and  rested  upon  the  few  sticks  of  furniture  and  the 
scant  remains  of  a  meal  on  the  kitchen  table.  Then 
he  looked  into  Mrs.  Berry's  face  and  saw  that  she 

123 


124  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

must  have  lived   once   amid   surroundings   far   less 
wretched  than  these. 

''Kit  was  taken  bad  with  fever  three  days  ago," 
she  said,  "an*  the  doctor  told  me  this  mornin'  that 
the  po'  boy  's  in  for  a  long  spell  of  typhoid.  He  's 
clean  out  of  his  head  most  of  the  time,  but  when- 
ever he  comes  to  himself  he  begs  and  prays  me  to 
send  for  you.  Something  's  on  his  mind,  but  I  can't 
make  out  what  it  is." 

"May  I  see  him  now?"  asked  Ordway. 

"I  think  he's  wanderin',  but  I'll  find  out  in  a 
minute." 

She  went  to  the  pallet  and  bending  over  the  young 
man,  whispered  a  few  words  in  his  ear,  while  her 
knotted  hand  stroked  back  the  hair  from  his  forehead. 
As  Ordway 's  eyes  rested  on  her  thin  shoulders  under 
the  ragged,  half  soiled  calico  dress  she  wore,  he  forgot 
the  son  in  the  presence  of  the  older  and  more  poignant 
tragedy  of  the  mother's  life.  Yet  all  that  he  knew 
of  her  history  was  that  she  had  married  a  drunkard 
and  had  brought  a  second  drunkard  into  the  world. 

"He  wants  to  speak  to  you,  sir — he  's  come  to," 
she  said,  returning  to  the  doorway,  and  fixing  her 
small  black  eyes  upon  Ordway 's  face.  "You 
are  the  gentleman,  ain't  you,  who  got  him  to  sign 
the  pledge?" 

Ordway  nodded.     "Did  he   keep   it?" 

Her  sharp  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  He  has  n't  touched  a  drop  for  going  on  six  weeks, 
sir,  but  he  had  n't  the  strength  to  hold  up  without  it, 
so  the  fever  came  on  and  wore  him  down."  Swallow- 


BULLFINCH'S  HOLLOW  125 

ing  a  sob  with  a  gulp,  she  wiped  her  eyes  fiercely  on 
the  back  of  her  hand.  "He  ain't  much  to  look  at 
now,"  she  finished,  divided  between  her  present  grief 
and  her  reminiscent  pride,  "but,  oh,  Mr.  Smith,  if 
you  could  have  seen  him  as  a  baby!  When  he  was  a 
week  old  he  was  far  and  away  the  prettiest  thing 
you  ever  laid  your  eyes  on — not  red,  sir,  like  other 
children,  but  white  as  milk,  with  dimples  at  his  knees 
and  elbows.  I  've  still  got  some  of  his  little  things — a 
dress  he  wore  and  a  pair  of  knitted  shoes — and  it 's 
them  that  make  me  cry,  sir.  I  ain't  grievin'  for  the 
po'  boy  in  there  that 's  drunk  himself  to  death,  but 
for  that  baby  that  used  to  be." 

Still  crying  softly,  she  slunk  out  into  the  kitchen, 
while  Ordway,  crossing  to  the  bed.  stood  looking  down 
upon  the  dissipated  features  of  the  boy  who  lay  there, 
with  his  matted  hair  tossed  over  his  flushed  forehead. 

"I  'm  sorry  to  see  you  down,  Kit.  Can  I  do  any- 
thing to  help  you?"  he  asked. 

Kit  opened  his  eyes  with  a  start  of  recognition, 
and  reaching  out,  gripped  Or d way's  wrist  with  his 
burning  hand,  while  he  threw  off  the  ragged  patch- 
work quilt  upon  the  bed. 

"I  've  something  on  my  mind,  and  I  want  to  get 
it  off,"  he  answered.  "When  it's  once  off  I'll  be 
better  and  get  back  my  wits." 

"Then  get  it  off.     I  'm  waiting." 

"Do  you  remember  the  night  in  the  bar-room?" 
demanded  the  boy  in  a  whisper,  "the  time  you  came 
in  through  the  window  and  took  me  home?" 

"Go  on,"  said  Ordway, 


i26  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Well,  I  'd  walked  up  the  street  behind  you  that 
afternoon  when  you  left  Baxter's,  and  I  got  drunk 
that  night  on  a  dollar  I  stole  from  you." 

"  But  I  didn't  speak  to  you.    I  didn't  even  see  you." 

"Of  course  you  didn't.  If  you  had  I  couldn't 
have  stolen  it,  but  Baxter  had  just  paid  you  and  when 
you  put  your  hand  into  your  pocket  to  get  out  some- 
thing, a  dollar  bill  dropped  on  the  walk." 

"Go  on." 

"  I  picked  it  up  and  got  drunk  on  it,  there's  nothing 
else.  It  was  a  pretty  hard  drunk,  but  before  I  got 
through  you  came  in  and  dragged  me  home.  Twenty 
cents  were  left  in  my  pockets.  Mother  found  the 
money  and  bought  a  fish  for  breakfast. 

"Well,  I  did  that  much  good  at  least,"  observed 
Ordway  with  a  smile,  "have  you  finished,  Kit?" 

"  It 's  been  on  my  mind,"  repeated  Kit  deliriously, 
"and  I  wanted  to  get  it  off." 

"  It 's  off  now,  my  boy,"  said  Ordway,  picking  up 
the  ragged  quilt  from  the  floor  and  laying  it  across 
the  other's  feet,  "and  on  the  whole  I  'm  glad  you  told 
•me.  You  Ve  -done  the  straight  thing,  Kit,  and  I  am 
proud  of  you." 

"Proud  of  me?"  repeated  Kit,  and  fell  to  crying 
like  a  baby. 

In  a  minute  he  grew  delirious  again,  and  Ordway, 
after  bathing  the  boy's  face  and  hands  from  a  basin 
of  water  on  a  chair  at  the  bedside,  went  into  the 
kitchen  in  search  of  Mrs.  Berry,  whom  he  found 
weeping  over  a  pair  of  baby's  knitted  shoes.  The 
pathos  of  her  grief  bordered  so  closely  upon  the 


BULLFINCH'S  HOLLOW  127 

ridiculous  that  while  he  watched  her  he  forced  back 
the  laugh  upon  his  lips. 

"Kit  is  worse  again,"  he  said.  "Do  you  give  him 
any  medicine?" 

Mrs.  Berry  struggled  with  difficulty  to  her  feet, 
while  her  sobs  changed  into  a  low  whimpering  sound. 

"Did  you  sit  up  with  him  last  night?"  asked  Ora- 
way,  following  her  to  the  door. 

"I've  been  up  for  three  nights,  sir.  He  has  to 
have  his  face  and  hands  bathed  every  hour." 

"What  about  medicine  and  food?" 

"The  doctor  gives  him  his  medicine  free,  every 
drop  of  it,  an'  they  let  me  have  a  can  of  milk  every 
day  from  Cedar  Hill.  I  used  to  live  there  as  a  girl, 
you  know,  my  father  was  overseer  in  old  Mr.  Brooke's 
time — before  he  married  Miss  Emily's  mother " 

Ordway  cut  short  her  reminiscences. 

"Well,  you  must  sleep  to-night,"  he  said  author- 
itatively, "I'll  come  back  in  an  hour  and  sit  up  with 
Kit.  Where  is  your  room?" 

She  pointed  to  a  rickety  flight  of  stairs  which  led 
to  the  attic  above. 

"Kit  slept  up  there  until  he  was  taken  ill,"  she 
answered.  "He  's  been  a  hard  son  to  me,  sir,  as  his 
father  was  a  hard  husband  because  of  drink,  but  to 
save  the  life  of  me  I  can't  forgit  how  good  he  used  to 
be  when  he  warn't  more  'n  a  week  old.  Never  fretted 
or  got  into  tempers  like  other  babies " 

Again  Ordway  broke  in  drily  upon  her  wandering 
recollections. 

"Now  1 11  go  for  an  hour,"  he  said  abruptly,  "and 


128  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

by  the  way,  have  you  had  supper  or  shall  I  bring  you 
some  groceries  when  I  come?" 

"There  was  a  little  milk  left  in  the  pitcher  and  I 
had  a  piece  of  cornbread,  but — oh,  Mr.  Smith,"  her 
small  black  eyes  snapped  fiercely  into  his,  "there  are 
times  when  my  mouth  waters  for  a  cup  of  coffee  jest 
as  po'  Kit's  does  for  whiskey." 

"Then  put  the  kettle  on/'  returned  Ordway, 
smiling,  as  he  left  the  room. 

It  was  past  sunset  when  he  returned,  and  he  found 
Kit  sleeping  quietly  under  the  effect  of  the  medicine 
the  doctor  had  just  given  him.  Mrs.  Berry  had 
recovered  sufficient  spirit,  not  only  to  put  the  kettle 
on  the  stove,  but  to  draw  the  kitchen  table  into  the 
square  of  faint  light  which  entered  over  the  doorstep. 
The  preparations  for  her  supper  had  been  made,  he 
saw,  with  evident  eagerness,  and  as  he  placed  his 
packages  upon  the  table,  she  fell  upon  them  with 
an  excited,  childish  curiosity.  A  few  moments  later 
the  aroma  of  boiling  coffee  floated  past  him  where 
he  sat  on  the  doorstep  smoking  his  last  pipe  before 
going  into  the  sick-room  for  the  night.  Turning 
presently  he  watched  the  old  woman  in  amazement 
while  she  sat  smacking  her  thin  lips  and  jerking  her 
shrivelled  little  hands  over  her  fried  bacon;  and  as 
he  looked  into  her  ecstatic  face,  he  realised  something 
of  the  intensity  which  enters  into  the  scant  enjoy- 
ments of  the  poor.  The  memory  of  his  night  in  the 
Brookes'  barn  returned  to  him  with  the  aroma  of 
the  coffee,  and  he  understood  for  the  first  time 
that  it  is  possible  to  associate  a  rapture  with  meat 


BULLFINCH'S  HOLLOW  129 

and  drink.  Then,  in  spite  of  his  resolve  to  keep 
his  face  turned  toward  his  future,  he  found  himself 
contrasting  the  squalid  shanty  at  his  back  with  the 
luxurious  surroundings  amid  which  he  had  last 
watched  all  night  by  a  sick-bed.  He  could  see  the 
rich  amber-coloured  curtains,  the  bowls  of  violets 
on  the  inlaid  table  between  the  open  windows,  the 
exquisite  embroidered  coverlet  upon  the  bed,  and  the 
long  pale  braid  of  Lydia's  hair  lying  across  the  lace 
ruffles  upon  her  nightgown.  Before  his  eyes  was  the 
sunken  field  filled  with  Negro  hovels  and  refuse 
heaps  in  which  lean  dogs  prowled  snarling  in  search 
of  bones;  but  his  inward  vision  dwelt,  in  a  luminous 
mist,  on  the  bright  room,  scented  with  violets,  where 
Lydia  had  slept  with  her  baby  cradled  within  her 
arm.  He  could  see  her  arm  still  under  the  falling 
lace,  round  and  lovely,  with  delicate  blue  veins 
showing  beneath  the  inside  curve. 

In  the  midst  of  his  radiant  memory  the  acrid  voice 
of  Mrs.  Berry  broke  with  a  shock,  and  turning  quickly 
he  found  that  his  dream  took  instant  flight  before  the 
aggressive  actuality  which  she  presented. 

"I  declare  I  believe  I'd  clean  forgot  how  good 
things  tasted,"  she  remarked  in  the  cheerful  tones  of 
one  who  is  full  again  after  having  been  empty. 

Picking  up  a  chip  from  the  ground,  Ordway  began 
scraping  carelessly  at  the  red  clay  on  his  boots. 
"It  smells  rather  nice  anyway,"  he  rejoined  gcod- 
humouredly,  and  rising  from  the  doorstep,  he  crossed 
the  kitchen  and  sat  down  in  the  sagging  split-bottomed 
chair  beside  the  pallet. 


i3o  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

At  sunrise  he  left  Kit,  sleeping  peacefully  after  a 
delirious  night,  and  going  out  of  doors  for  a  breath  of 
fresh  air,  stood  looking  wearily  on  the  dismal  prospect 
of  Bullfinch's  Hollow.  The  disorderly  road,  the 
dried  herbage  of  the  field,  the  Negro  hovels,  with  pig 
pens  for  backyards,  and  the  refuse  heaps  piled  with 
tin  cans,  old  rags  and  vegetable  rinds,  appeared  to 
him  now  to  possess  a  sordid  horror  which  had  escaped 
him  under  the  merciful  obscurity  of  the  twilight. 
Even  the  sun,  he  thought,  looked  lean  and  shrunken, 
as  it  rose  over  the  slovenly  landscape. 

With  the  first  long  breath  he  drew  there  was  only 
dejection  in  his  mental  outlook;  then  he  remembered 
the  enraptured  face  of  Mrs.  Berry  as  she  poured  out 
her  coffee,  and  he  told  himself  that  there  were  pleas- 
ures hardy  enough  to  thrive  and  expand  even  in  the 
atmosphere  of  Bullfinch's  Hollow. 

As  there  was  no  wood  in  the  kitchen,  he  shouldered 
an  old  axe  which  he  found  leaning  in  one  corner, 
and  going  to  a  wood-pile  beyond  the  doorstep,  split 
up  the  single  rotting  log  lying  upon  a  heap  of  mould. 
Returning  with  his  armful  of  wood,  he  knelt  on  the 
hearth  and  attempted  to  kindle  a  blaze  before  the 
old  woman  should  make  her  appearance  from  the 
attic.  The  sticks  had  just  caught  fire,  when  a  shadow 
falling  over  him  from  the  open  door  caused  him  to 
start  suddenly  to  his  feet. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  a  voice,  "but  I've 
brought  some  milk  for  Mrs.  Berry." 

At  the  words  his  face  reddened  as  if  from  shame, 
and  drawing  himself  to  his  full  height,  he  stood, 


BULLFINCH'S  HOLLOW  131 

embarrassed  and  silent,  in  the  centre  of  the  roomr 
while  Emily  Brooke  crossed  the  floor  and  placed  the 
can  of  milk  she  had  brought  upon  the  table. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  interrupt  you,"  she  added  cheer- 
fully, "but  there  was  no  one  else  to  come,  so  I  had  to 
ride  over  before  breakfast.  Is  Kit  better?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ordway,  and  to  his  annoyance  he  felt 
himself  flush  painfully  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice. 

"You  spent  last  night  with  him?"  she  inquired  in 
her  energetic  tones. 

"Yes." 

As  he  stood  there  in  his  cheap  clothes,  with  his 
dishevelled  hair  and  his  unwashed  hands,  she  was 
struck  by  some  distinction  of  personality,  before 
which  these  surface  roughnesses  appeared  as  mere 
incidental  things.  Was  it  in  his  spare,  weather-beaten 
face?  Or  was  it  in  the  peculiar  contrast  between 
his  gray  hair  and  his  young  blue  eyes  ?  Then  her  gaze 
fell  on  his  badly  made  working  clothes,  worn  thread- 
bare in  places,  on  his  clean  striped  shirt,  frayed 
slightly  at  the  collar  and  cuffs,  on  his  broken  finger- 
nails, and  on  the  red  clay  still  adhering  to  his  country 
boots. 

"  I  wonder  why  you  do  these  things? "  she  asked  so 
softly  that  the  words  hardly  reached  him.  "I 
wonder  why?" 

Though  she  had  expected  no  response  to  her 
question,  to  her  surprise  he  answered  almost  impul- 
sively as  he  stooped  to  pick  up  a  bit  of  charred  v/ood 
from  the  floor. 

"Well,  one  must  fill  one's  life,  you  know,"  he  said. 


132  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"I  tried  the  other  thing  once  but  it  did  n't  count — it 
•was  hardly  better  than  this,  when  all  is  said." 

"What  'other  thing'  do  you  mean?" 

"When  I  spoke  I  was  thinking  of  what  people 
have  got  to  call  'pleasure,'"  he  responded,  "getting 
what  one  wants  in  life,  or  trying  to  get  it  and  failing 
in  the  end." 

"And  did  you  fail?"  she  asked,  with  a  simplicity 
which  saved  the  blunt  directness  of  the  question. 

He  laughed.  "Do  you  think  if  I  had  succeeded, 
I  'd  be  splitting  wood  in  Bullfinch's  Hollow? " 

"And  you  care  nothing  for  Kit  Berry?" 

"  Oh,  I  like  him— he  's  an  under  dog." 

"Then  you  are  for  the  under  dog,  right  or  wrong, 
as  I  am?"  she  responded  with  a  radiant  look. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  answered, 
"but  I  have  at  least  a  fellow  feeling  for  him.  I  'm 
an  under  dog  myself,  you  see." 

"But  you  won't  stay  one  long?" 

"That 's  the  danger.  When  I  come  out  on  top  I  '11 
doubtless  stop  splitting  wood  and  do  something 
worse." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  rejoined  decisively.  "You 
have  never  had  a  chance  at  the  real  thing  before." 

"You're  right  there,"  he  admitted,  "I  had  never 
seen  the  real  thing  in  my  life  until  I  came  to  Tappa- 
hannock." 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me,"  she  asked,  after  an 
instant's  hesitation,  "why  you  came  to  Tappa- 
hannock?  I  can't  understand  why  anyone  should 
ever  come  here." 


BULLFINCH'S  HOLLOW  133 

"  I  don't  know  about  the  others,  but  I  came  because 
my  road  led  here.  I  followed  my  road." 

"Not  knowing  where  it  would  end?" 

He  laughed  again.  "Not  caring  where  it  would 
end." 

Her  charming  boyish  smile  rippled  across  her  lips. 

" It  isn't  necessary  that  I  should  understand  to  be 
glad  that  you  kept  straight  on,"  she  said. 

"But  the  end  isn't  yet,"  he  replied,  with  a  gaiety 
beneath  which  she  saw  the  seriousness  in  his  face. 
41  It  may  lead  me  off  again." 

"To  a  better  place  I  hope." 

"Well,  I  suppose  that  would  be  easy  to  find,"  he 
admitted,  as  he  glanced  beyond  the  doorway,  "but 
I  like  Tappahannock.  It  has  taken  me  in,  you  know, 
and  there's  human  nature  even  in  Bullfinch's  Hollow." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  it's  hideous,"  she  remarked, 
following  his  look  in  the  direction  of  the  town,  "but 
I  can't  judge.  I've  seen  so  little  else,  you  know — 
and  yet  my  City  Beautiful  is  laid  out  in  my  mind." 

"Then  you  carry  it  with  you,  and  that  is  best." 

As  she  was  about  to  answer  the  door  creaked  above 
them  and  Mrs.  Berry  came  down  the  short  flight  of 
steps,  hastily  fastening  her  calico  dress  as  she 
descended. 

"Well,  I  declare,  who'd  have  thought  to  see  you 
at  this  hour,  Miss  Emily,"  she  exclaimed  effusively. 

"  I  thought  you  might  need  the  milk  early,"  replied 
the  girl,  "and  as  Micah  had  an  attack  of  rheumatism 
I  brought  it  over  on  horseback." 

While  the  old  woman  emptied  the  contents  of  the 


134  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

can  into  a  cracked  china  pitcher,  Emily  held  out  her 
hand  to  Ordway  with  an  impulsive  gesture. 

"We  shall  have  a  flourishing  kitchen  garden,"  she 
said,  "thanks  to  you." 

Then  taking  the  empty  can  from  Mrs.  Berry,  she 
crossed  the  threshold,,  and  remounted  from  the 
doorstep. 


CHAPTER    XII 
A  STRING  OF  CORAL 

As  EMILY  rode  slowly  up  from  Bullfinch's  Hollow,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  abandoned  fields  had  borrowed 
an  aspect  which  was  almost  one  of  sentiment.  In 
the  golden  light  of  the  sunrise  even  the  Negro  hovels, 
the  refuse  heaps  and  the  dead  thistles  by  the  roadside, 
were  transfigured  until  they  appeared  to  lose  their 
ordinary  daytime  ugliness;  and  the  same  golden 
light  was  shining  inwardly  on  the  swift  impressions 
which  crowded  her  thoughts.  This  strange  inner 
illumination  surrounded,  she  discovered  now,  each 
common  fact  which  presented  itself  to  her  mind,  and 
though  the  outward  form  of  life  was  not  changed, 
her  mental  vision  had  become  suddenly  enraptured. 
She  did  not  stop  to  ask  herself  why  the  familiar 
events  of  every  day  appear  so  full  of  vivid  interests — 
why  the  external  objects  at  which  she  looked  swam 
before  her  gaze  in  an  atmosphere  that  was  like  a 
rainbow  mist?  It  was  sufficient  to  be  alive  to  the 
finger  tips,  and  to  realise  that  everything  in  the  great 
universe  was  alive  around  one — the  air,  the  sky,  the 
thistles  along  the  roadside  and  the  dust  blowing  before 
the  wind,  all  moved,  she  felt,  in  harmony  with  the 
elemental  pulse  of  life.  On  that  morning  she  entered 
for  the  first  time  into  the  secret  of  immortality. 


136  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

And  yet — was  it  only  the  early  morning  hour? 
she  asked  herself,  as  she  rode  back  between  the 
stretches  of  dried  broomsedge.  Or  was  it,  she 
questioned  a  moment  later,  the  natural  gratification 
she  had  felt  in  a  charity  so  generous,  so  unassuming 
as  that  of  the  man  she  had  seen  at  Mrs.  Berry's? 

"It's  a  pity  he  isn't  a  gentleman  and  that  his 
clothes  are  so  rough,"  she  thought,  and  blushed  the 
next  instant  with  shame  because  she  was  "only  a 
wretched  snob." 

"Whatever  his  class  he  is  a  gentleman,"  she  began 
again,  "and  he  would  be  quite — even  very — good- 
looking  if  his  face  were  not  so  drawn  and  thin.  What 
strange  eyes  he  has — they  are  as  blue  as  Blair's  and 
as  young.  No,  he  is  n't  exactly  good-looking — not 
in  Beverly's  way,  at  least — but  I  should  know  his  face 
again  if  I  did  n't  see  it  for  twenty  years.  It 's  odd 
that  there  are  people  one  hardly  knows  whom  one 
never  forgets." 

Her  bare  hands  were  on  Major's  neck,  and  as  she 
looked  at  them  a  displeased  frown  gathered  her  brows. 
She  wondered  why  she  had  never  noticed  before 
that  they  were  ugly  and  unwomanly,  and  it  occurred 
to  her  that  Aunt  Mehitable  had  once  told  her  that 
"ole  Miss"  washed  her  hands  in  buttermilk  to  keep 
them  soft  and  white.  "They  're  almost  as  rough 
as  Mr.  Smith's,"  she  thought,  "perhaps  he  noticed 
them."  The  idea  worried  her  for  a  minute,  for  she 
hated,  she  told  herself,  that  people  should  not  think 
her  "nice" — but  the  golden  light  was  still  flooding 
her  thoughts  and  these  trivial  disturbances  scattered 


A  STRING  OF  CORAL  137 

almost  before  they  had  managed  to  take  shape. 
Nothing  worried  her  long  to-day,  and  as  she  dis- 
mounted at  the  steps,  and  ran  hurriedly  into  the 
dining-room,  she  remembered  Beverly  and  Amelia 
with  an  affection  which  she  had  not  felt  for  years. 
It  was  as  if  the  mere  external  friction  of  personalities 
had  dissolved  before  the  fundamental  relation  of 
soul  to  soul ;  even  poor  half-demented  Aunt  Mehitable 
wore  in  her  eyes,  at  the  minute,  an  immortal  aspect. 

A  little  later  when  she  rode  in  to  the  public  school 
at  Tappahannock,  she  discovered  that  the  golden 
light  irradiated  even  the  questions  in  geography  and 
arithmetic  upon  the  blackboard;  and  coming  out  again, 
she  found  that  it  lay  like  sunshine  on  the  newly  turned 
vegetable  rows  in  the  garden.  That  afternoon  for 
the  first  time  she  planted  in  a  discarded  pair  of  buck- 
skin gloves,  and  as  soon  as  her  work  was  over,  she 
went  upstairs  to  her  bedroom,  and  regarded  herself 
wistfully  by  the  light  from  a  branched  candlestick 
which  she  held  against  the  old  greenish  mirror.  Her 
forehead  was  too  high,  she  admitted  regretfully,  her 
mouth  was  too  wide,  her  skin  certainly  was  too 
brown.  The  blue  cotton  dress  she  wore  appeared  to 
her  suddenly  common'  and  old-fashioned,  and  she 
began  looking  eagerly  through  her  limited  ward- 
robe in  the  hopeless  quest  for  a  gown  that  was 
softened  by  so  much  as  a  fall  of  lace  about  the  throat. 
Then  remembering  the  few  precious  trinkets  saved 
from  the  bartered  heirlooms  of  her  dead  mother,  she 
got  out  the  old  black  leather  jewel  case  and  went 
patiently  over  the  family  possessions.  Among  the 


138  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

mourning  brooches  and  hair  bracelets  that  the  box 
contained  there  was  a  necklace  of  rare  pink 
coral,  which  she  had  meant  to  give  Bella  upon  her 
birthday — but  as  her  gaze  was  arrested  now  by  the 
cheerful  colour,  she  sat  for  a  moment  wondering  if 
she  might  not  honestly  keep  the  beads  for  her  own. 
Still  undecided  she  went  to  the  bureau  again  and 
fastened  the  string  of  coral  around  her  firm  brown 
throat. 

"I  may  wear  it  for  a  week  or  two  at  least/'  she 
thought.  "Why  not?"  It  seemed  to  her  foolish, 
almost  unfeminine  that  she  had  never  cared  or  thought 
about  her  clothes  until  to-day.  "I  've  gone  just  like 
a  boy- — I  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  show  my  hands," 
she  said;  and  at  the  same  instant  she  was  conscious 
of  the  vivid  interest,  of  the  excitement  even,  which 
attached  to  this  new  discovery  of  the  importance  of 
one's  appearance.  Before  going  downstairs  she 
brushed  the  tangles  out  of  her  thick  brown  hair,  and 
spent  a  half  hour  arranging  it  in  a  becoming  fashion 
upon  her  neck. 

The  next  day  Micah  was  well  enough  to  carry  the 
milk  to  Mrs.  Berry's,  but  three  mornings  afterward, 
when  she  came  from  the  dairy  with  the  can,  the  old 
negro  was  not  waiting  for  her  on  the  porch,  and  she 
found,  upon  going  to  his  cabin,  that  the  attack  of 
rheumatism  had  returned  with  violence.  There  was 
nothing  for  her  to  do  but  carry  the  milk  herself,  so 
after  leading  Major  from  his  stall,  she  mounted  and 
rode,  almost  with  a  feeling  of  shyness,  in  the  direction 
of  Bullfinch's  Hollow. 


A  STRING  OF  CORAL  139 

The  door  was  closed  this  morning,  and  in  answer 
to  her  knock,  Mrs.  Berry  appeared,  rubbing  her  eyes, 
beyond  the  threshold. 

"  I  declare,  Miss  Emily,  you  don't  look  like  yourself 
at  all,"  she  exclaimed  at  the  girl's  entrance,  "it  must 
be  them  coral  beads  you  've  got  on,  I  reckon.  They 
always  was  becomin'  things — I  had  a  string  once 
myself  that  I  used  to  wear  when  my  po'  dead  husband 
was  courtin'  me.  Lord!  Lord! "  she  added,  bursting- 
into  sobs,  "who  'd  have  thought  when  I  wore  those 
beads  that  I  'd  ever  have  come  to  this?  My  po'  ma 
gave  'em  to  me  herself — they  were  her  weddin'  present 
from  her  first  husband,  and  when  she  made  up  her 
mind  to  marry  again,  she  kind  of  thought  it  warn't 
modest  to  go  aroun'  wearin'  what  she  'd  got  from  her 
first  marriage.  SJie  Was  always  powerful  sensitive  to 
decency,  was  po'  ma,  I  've  seen  her  scent  vulgarity 
in  the  most  harmless  soundin'  speech  you  ever 
heard — such  as  when  my  husband  asked  her  one  day 
if  she  was  afflicted  with  the  budges  in  her  knee,  and 
she  told  me  afterward  that  he  had  made  a  sneakin' 
allusion  to  her  leg.  Ten  years  from  that  time,  when 
all  my  trouble  came  upon  me,  she  held  that  over  me 
as  a  kind  of  warnin'.  '  If  you  'd  listened  to  me, 
Sarindy,'  she  used  to  say,  'you  'd  never  have  got  into 
this  scrape  of  marryin'  a  man  who  talked  free  befo* 
women.  For  a  man  who  is  indecent  in  his  language 
can't  be  decent  in  his  life,'  she  said." 

As  she  talked  she  was  pouring  the  milk  into  the 
cracked  pitcher,  and  Emily  breaking  in  at  the  first 
pause,  sought  to  hasten  the  washing  of  the  can,  by 


i4o  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

bringing  the  old  woman's  rambling  attention  back 
to  Kit. 

"Has  he  had  a  quiet  night?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  yes,  miss,  in  a  way,  but  then  he  always 
was  what  you  might  call  a  quiet  sleeper  from  the 
very  hour  that  he  was  born.  I  remember  old  Aunt 
Jemima,  his  monthly  nurse,  tellin'  me  that  she  had 
never  in  all  her  experience  brought  a  more  reliable 
sleeper  into  the  world.  He  never  used  to  stir,  except 
to  whimper  now  and  then  for  his  sugar  rag  when  it 
slipped  out  of  his  mouth." 

Hurriedly  seizing  the  half-washed  can,  Emily 
caught  up  her  skirt  and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Did  you  sit  up  with  him  last  night?"  she  asked, 
turning  upon  the  step. 

"That  was  Mr.  Smith's  night,  miss — he's  taken 
such  a  fancy  to  Kit  that  he  comes  every  other  night 
to  watch  by  him — but  he  gets  up  and  leaves  now  a 
little  before  daybreak.  I  heard  him  choppin'  wood 
before  the  sun  was  up." 

"He  has  been  very  kind  about  it,  hasn't  he?" 

"Lord,  miss,  he  's  been  a  son  and  a  brother  as  far 
as  work  goes,  but  I  declare  I  can't  help  wishin'  he 
was  n't  quite  so  shut  mouthed.  Every  blessed  sound 
he  utters  I  have  to  drag  out  of  him  like  a  fox  out 
of  a  burrow.  He  's  a  little  cranky,  too,  I  reckon, 
for  he  is  so  absent-minded  that  sometimes  when  you 
call  his  name  he  never  even  turns  aroun'.  But 
the  Lord  will  overlook  his  unsociable  ways,  I  s'pose, 
for  he  reads  his  Bible  half  the  night*  when  he  sets 
up,  jest  as  hard  as  if  he  was  paid  to  do  it.  That 's 


A  STRING  OF  CORAL  141 

as  good  a  recommendation,  I  reckon,  as  I  need  to 
have." 

"  I  should  think  his  charity  would  be  a  better  one/ 
rejoined  Emily,  with  severity. 

"Well,  that 's  as  it  may  be,  Miss,"  returned  Mrs. 
Berry,  "  I  'm  not  ungrateful,  I  hope,  and  I  'm  much 
obliged  for  what  he  gives  me — particularly  for  the 
coffee,  which  ain't  as  thin  as  it  might  be  seem*  it's 
a  present.  But  when  all 's  said  I  ain't  so  apt  to  jedge 
by  things  like  that  because  charity  is  jest  a  kind  of 
Saint  Vitus  dance  with  some  folks — it 's  all  in  the 
muscles.  Thank  you,  miss,  yes,  Kit  is  doinf  very 
well." 

Mounting  from  the  step,  Emily  turned  back  into 
the  Tappahannock  road,  aware  as  she  passed  through 
the  deserted  fields  that  her  exaltation  of  the 
morning  had  given  way  before  a  despondency  which 
seemed  to  change  the  face  of  nature.  The  day 
was  oppressive,  the  road  ugly,  Mrs.  Berry  more 
tiresome  than  usual — each  of  these  things  suggested 
itself  as  a  possible  reason  for  the  dissatisfaction  which 
she  could  not  explain.  Not  once  during  her  troubled 
mood  did  the  name  or  the  face  of  Ordway  appear 
as  the  visible  cause  of  her  disturbance.  So  far,  indeed, 
was  his  individual  aspect  from  her  reflections,  that 
some  hours  later,  when  she  rode  back  to  school,  it 
was  with  a  shock  of  surprise  that  she  saw  him  turn 
the  corner  by  the  new  brick  church,  and  come  rapidly 
toward  her  from  the  brow  of  the  long  hill.  That  he 
had  not  at  first  seen  her  was  evident,  for  he  walked 
in  an  abstracted  reverie  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 


i42  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

and  when  he  looked  up  at  last,  she  had  drawn  almost 
within  speaking  distance.  At  sight  of  his  face  her 
heart  beat  so  quickly  that  she  dropped  the  reins  on 
Major's  neck,  and  raised  her  free  hand  to  her  bosom, 
while  she  felt  the  blood  mount  joyously  to  her 
cheeks ;  but,  to  her  amazement,  in  the  first  instant  of 
recognition,  he  turned  abruptly  away  and  entered 
the  shop  of  a  harness  maker  which  happened  to  be 
immediately  on  his  right.  The  action  was  so  sudden 
that  even  as  she  quickened  her  horse's  pace,  there 
flashed  into  her  mind  the  humiliating  conviction 
that  he  had  sought  purposely  to  avoid  her.  The 
throbs  of  her  heart  grew  faster  and  then  seemed  to 
die  utterly  away,  yet  even  as  the  warm  blood  turned 
cold  in  her  cheeks,  she  told  herself  with  spirit  that  it 
was  all  because  she  "could  not  bear  to  be  disliked." 
"  Why  should  he  dislike  me  ?"  she  questioned  presently ; 
"it  is  very  foolish  of  him,  and  what  have  I  done?" 
She  searched  her  memory  for  some  past  rudeness  of 
which  she  had  been  guilty,  but  there  was  nothing 
she  could  recall  which  would  justify,  however  slightly, 
his  open  avoidance  of  a  chance  meeting.  "Perhaps 
he  does  n't  like  the  colour  of  my  hair.  I  've  heard  men 
were  like  that,"  she  thought,  "or  the  freckles  on  my 
face?  Or  the  roughness  of  my  hands?"  But  the 
instant  afterward  she  saw  how  ridiculous  were  her 
surmises,  and  she  felt  angry  with  herself  for  having 
permitted  them  to  appear  in  her  mind.  She  remem- 
bered his  blue  eyes  with  the  moonlight  upon  them, 
and  she  wondered  why  he  had  seemed  to  her  more 
masculine  than  any  man  that  she  had  ever  known. 


A  STRING  OF  CORAL  143 

With  the  memory  of  his  eyes  and  his  smile  she  smelt 
again  the  odour  of  the  warm  earth  that  had  clung 
about  him,  and  she  was  conscious  that  this  and  every- 
thing about  him  was  strange  and  new  as  if  she  had 
never  looked  into  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  or  smelt  the 
odour  of  the  soil  before. 

After  this  meeting  she  did  not  see  Ordway  again 
for  several  weeks,  and  then  it  was  only  to  pass  him 
in  the  road  one  Sunday  afternoon  when  he  had 
finished  his  sermon  in  the  old  field.  As  he  drew  back 
among  the  thistles,  he  spoke  to  her  gravely,  with  a 
deference,  she  noticed,  which  had  the  effect  of  placing 
him  apart  from  her  as  a  member  of  the  working 
class.  Since  Kit  Berry's  recovery  she  had  not  gone 
again  to  Bullfinch's  Hollow;  and  she  could  not  fail  to 
observe  that  even  when  an  opportunity  appeared, 
Ordway  made  no  further  effort  to  bridge  the  mere 
casual  acquaintance  which  divided  rather  than  united 
them.  If  it  were  possible  to  avoid  conversation  with 
her  he  did  so  by  retiring  into  the  background;  if  the 
event  forced  him  into  notice,  he  addressed  her  with 
a  reserve  which  seemed  at  each  meeting  to  widen 
the  distance  between  them. 

Though  she  hardly  confessed  it  to  herself,  her 
heart  was  wounded  for  a  month  or  two  by  his 
frank  indifference  to  her  presence.  Then  one  bright 
afternoon  in  May,  wnen  she  had  observed  him  turn 
out  of  his  path  as  she  rode  up  the  hill,  she  saved  the 
situation  in  her  mind  by  the  final  triumph  of  her 
buoyant  humour. 

"Everybody  is  privileged  to  be  a  little  fool,"  she 


144  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

said  with  a  laugh,  "but  when  there  's  the  danger  of 
becoming  a  great  big  one,  it 's  time  to  stop  short  and 
turn  round.  Now,  Emily,  my  dear,  you  're  to  stop 
short  from  this  minute.  I  hope  you  understand 
me." 

That  the  Emily  she  addressed  understood  her  very 
clearly  was  proved  a  little  later  in  the  afternoon, 
when  going  upstairs  to  her  bedroom,  she  unfastened 
the  coral  beads  and  laid  them  away  again  among  the 
mourning  brooches  and  the  hair  bracelets  in  the 
leather  case. 


BOOK  SECOND 
THE   DAY  OF  RECKONING 


CHAPTER  I 
IN  WHICH  A  STRANGER  APPEARS 

ON  A  bright  June  morning,  when  Ordway  had  been 
more  than  two  years  at  Tappahannock,  he  came  out 
upon  Mrs.  Twine's  little  porch  as  soon  as  breakfast 
was  over,  and  looked  down  the  board  walk  for  Harry 
Banks,  who  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  accompany- 
ing him  to  the  warehouse.  From  where  he  stood, 
under  the  hanging  blossoms  of  the  locust  trees,  he 
could  see  the  painted  tin  roofs  and  the  huddled 
chimneys  of  the  town,  flanked  by  the  brazen  sweep 
of  the  cornfields  along  the  country  roads.  As  his 
eyes  rested  on  the  familiar  scene,  they  softened 
unconsciously  with  an  affection  which  was  almost 
paternal — for  in  the  last  two  years  Tappahannock 
had  become  a  different  place  from  the  Tappahan- 
nock he  had  entered  as  a  tramp  on  that  windy  after- 
noon in  March.  The  town  as  it  stood  to-day  was 
the  town  which  he  had  helped  to  make,  and  behind 
each  roll  of  progress  there  had  been  the  informing 
purpose  of  his  mind,  as  well  as  the  strength 
of  his  shoulder  at  the  wheel.  Behind  the  law 
which  had  closed  the  disreputable  barrooms;  be- 
hind the  sentiment  for  decency  which  had  purified 
the  filthy  hollows ;  behind  the  spirit  of  charity  which 
had  organised  and  opened,  not  only  a  reading  room 

147 


148  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

for  the  factory  workers,  but  an  industrial  home  for 
the  poorer  classes — behind  each  of  these  separate 
movements  there  had  been  a  single  energy  to  plan 
and  act.  In  two  years  he  had  watched  the  little 
town  cover  the  stretch  of  ten  years'  improvement; 
in  two  years  he  had  aroused  and  vitalised  the  com- 
munity into  which  he  had  come  a  stranger.  Tap- 
pahannock  was  the  child  of  his  brain — the  life  that 
was  in  her  to-day  he  had  given  her  out  of  himself, 
and  the  love  he  felt  for  her  was  the  love  that  one 
bestows  upon  one's  own.  Standing  there  his  eyes 
followed  the  street  to  the  ugly  brick  church  at  the 
corner,  and  then  as  his  mental  vision  travelled  down 
the  long,  hot  hill  which  led  to  the  railroad,  he  could 
tell  himself,  with  a  kind  of  exultation,  that  there  was 
hardly  a  dwelling  along  the  way  which  had  not  some 
great  or  little  reason  to  bless  his  name.  Even  Kelly, 
whose  saloon  he  had  closed,  had  been  put  upon  his 
feet  again  and  started,  with  a  fair  chance,  in  the 
tobacco  market.  Yes,  a  new  life  had  been  given 
him,  and  he  had  made  good  his  promise  to  himself. 
The  clothes  he  wore  to-day  were  as  rough  as  those  in 
which  he  had  chopped  wood  in  Bullfinch's  Hollow; 
the  room  he  lived  in  was  the  same  small,  bare  lodging 
of  Mrs.  Twine's;  for  though  his  position  at  Baxter's 
now  assured  him  a  comfortable  income,  he  had  kept 
to  his  cramped  manner  of  life  in  order  that  he  might 
contribute  the  more  generously  to  the  lives  of  others. 
Out  of  his  little  he  had  given  abundantly,  and  he  had 
gained  in  return  the  happiness  which  he  had  ceased 
to  make  the  object  of  his  search.  In  looking  back 


IN  WHICH  A  STRANGER  APPEARS     149 

over  his  whole  life,  he  could  honestly  tell  himself 
that  his  happiest  years  since  childhood  were  the 
ones  that  he  had  spent  in  Tappahannock. 

The  gate  closed  with  a  slam,  and  Banks  came  up 
the  short  brick  walk  inside,  mopping  his  heated  face 
with  a  pink  bordered  handkerchief. 

"I'm  a  minute  late,"  he  said,  "but  it  doesn't 
matter,  does  it?  The  Trends  asked  me  to  breakfast." 

"  It  doesn  't  matter  in  the  least  if  you  spent  that 
minute  with  Milly,"  replied  Ordway,  with  a  laugh, 
as  he  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and  descen- 
ded the  steps.  "The  hot  weather  has  come  early, 
hasn't  it?" 

"Oh,  we're  going  in  for  a  scorcher,"  responded 
Banks,  indifferently.  There  was  a  heavy  gloom  in 
his  manner  which  was  hardly  to  be  accounted  for  by 
the  temperature  in  which  he  moved,  and  as  they 
closed  the  gate  behind  them  and  passed  under  the 
shade  of  the  locust  trees  on  the  board  walk,  he 
turned  to  Ordway  in  an  outburst  which  was  little 
short  of  desperation. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is — or  whether  it  's  just  a 
woman's  way,"  he  said,  "but  I  never  can  be  sure 
of  Milly  for  ten  minutes  at  a  time.  A  month  ago  I 
was  positive  that  she  meant  to  marry  me  in  the 
autumn,  but  now  I'm  in  a  kind  of  blue  funk  about 
her  doing  it  at  all.  She's  never  been  the  same  since 
she  went  North  in  April." 

"My  dear  chap,  these  things  will  vary,  I  suppose — 
though,  mind  you,  I  make  no  claim  to  exact  knowl- 
edge of  the  sex." 


ISO  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"It  isn't  the  sex,"  said  Banks,  "it  fs  Milly." 

"Well,  I  certainly  can't  claim  any  particular 
knowledge  of  Milly.  It  would  be  rather  presump- 
tuous if  I  did,  considering  I  Ve  only  seen  her  about  a 
dozen  times — mostly  at  a  distance." 

"I  wish  you  knew  her  better,  perhaps  you  could 
help  me,"  returned  Banks  in  a  voice  of  melancholy. 
"To  save  the  life  of  me  I  don't  see  how  it  is — I  've 
done  my  best — I  swear  I've  done  my  best — yet 
nothing  somehow  seems  to  suit  her.  She  wants  to 
make  me  over  from  the  skin  and  even  that  doesn't 
satisfy  her.  When  my  hair  is  short  she  wants  it 
long,  and  when  it 's  long  she  says  she  wants  it  short. 
She  can't  stand  me  in  coloured  cravats  and  when  I 
put  on  a  black  tie  she  calls  me  an  undertaker.  I 
had  to  leave  off  my  turtle-dove  scarf-pin  and  this 
morning,"  he  rolled  his  innocent  blue  eyes,  like  pale 
marbles,  in  the  direction  of  Ordway,  "she  actually 
got  into  a  temper  about  my  stockings." 

44  It  seems  to  be  a  case  for  sympathy,"  commented 
Ordway  seriously,  "but  hardly,  I  should  say,  for 
marriage.  Imagine,  my  dear  Banks,  what  a  hell 
you  'd  make  out  of  your  domesticity.  Suppose  you 
give  her  up  and  bear  it  like  a  man?" 

"Give  her  up?  to  what?" 

"Well,  to  her  own  amiability,  we  '11  say." 

"I  can't"  said  Banks,  waving  his  pink  bordered 
handkerchief  before  his  face  in  an  effort  either  to 
disperse  the  swarming  blue  flies  or  to  conceal  the 
working  of  his  emotion.  "  I  'd  die — I  'd  kill  myself — 
that's  the  awful  part  of  it.  The  more  she  bangs  me 


IN  WHICH  A  STRANGER  APPEARS     151 

over  the  head,  the  more  I  feel  that  I  can't  live  with- 
out her.  Is  that  natural,  do  you  s'pose?"  he 
inquired  uneasily,  "or  have  I  gone  clean  crazy?" 

Checking  his  smile  severely,  Ordway  turned  and 
slipped  his  left  arm  affectionately  through  his 
companion's. 

"  I  've  heard  of  similar  cases,"  he  remarked, "  though 
I  confess,  they  sounded  a  little  strained." 

"Do  you  think  I  'd  better  see  a  doctor?  I  will  if 
you  say  so." 

"By  no  means.     Go  off  on  a  trip." 

"And  leave  Milly  here?  I  'd  jump  out  of  the  train 
— and,  I  reckon,  she  'd  bang  my  head  off  for  doing  it." 

"But  if  it 's  as  bad  as  that,  you  couldn't  be  much 
more  miserable  without  her." 

"I  know  it,"  replied  Banks  obstinately,  "but  it 
would  be  a  different  sort  of  miserableness,  and  that 
happens  to  be  the  sort  that  I  can't  stand." 

"Then  I  give  it  up,"  said  Ordway,  cheerfully, 
"there's  no  hope  but  marriage." 

With  his  words  they  turned  under  the  archway  of 
Baxter's  warehouse,  and  Banks's  passionate  con- 
fidences were  extinguished  in  the  odour  of  tobacco. 

A  group  of  men  stood  talking  loudly  in  the  centre 
of  the  building,  and  as  Ordway  approached,  Baxter 
broke  away,  with  his  great  rolling  laugh,  and  came 
to  join  him  at  the  door  of  his  private  office. 

"Catesby  and  Frazier  have  got  into  a  squabble 
about  that  lot  of  tobacco  they  brought  in  last  Feb- 
ruary," he  said,  "  and  they  have  both  agreed  to  accept 
your  decision  in  the  matter." 


152  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

Ordway  nodded,  without  replying,  as  he  followed 
the  other  through  the  doorway.  Such  judicial  ap- 
peals to  him  were  not  uncommon,  and  his  power 
of  pacification,  as  his  employer  had  once  remarked, 
was  one  of  his  principal  qualifications  for  the  tobacco 
market. 

"Shall  I  hear  them  now?  or  would  it  be  as  well  to 
give  them  time  to  cool  off?"  he  asked  presently, 
while  Baxter  settled  his  great  person  in  a  desk  chair 
that  seemed  a  size  too  small  to  contain  it. 

"If  they  can  cool  off  on  a  day  like  this  they  're 
lucky  dogs,"  returned  Baxter,  with  a  groan,  "how- 
ever, I  reckon  you  might  as  well  get  it  over  and  let 
'em  go  home  and  stew  in  peace.  By  the  way,  Smith, 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Major  Leary — he 's  the 
president  of  the  Southside  Bank,  you  know,  was 
asking  me  yesterday  if  I  could  tell  him  anything 
about  you  before  you  came  to  work  for  me." 

"Of  the  Southside  Bank,"  repeated  Ordway,  while 
his  hand  closed  tightly  over  a  paper  weight,  represent- 
ing a  gambolling  kitten,  which  lay  on  Baxter's  desk. 
With  the  words  he  was  conscious  only  of  the  muffled 
drumming  of  his  pulses,  and  above  the  discord  in 
his  ears,  the  cheerful  tones  of  Baxter  sounded  like 
an  echo  rather  than  a  real  voice.  At  the  instant  he 
was  back  again  in  his  room  in  the  great  banking 
house  of  Amos,  Bonner  &  Amos,  in  the  midst  of  the 
pale  brown  walls,  the  black  oak  furniture  and  the 
shining  leather  covered  volumes  behind  the  glass 
doors  of  the  bookcases.  With  peculiar  vividness  he 
remembered  the  eccentric  little  bird  on  the  bronze 


IN  WHICH  A  STRANGER  APPEARS     153 

clock  on  the  mantel,  which  had  hopped  from  its 
swinging  perch  to  strike  the  hour  with  its  beak; 
and  through  the  open  windows  he  could  hear  still  the 
din  of  traffic  in  the  street  below  and  the  ceaseless, 
irregular  tread  of  footsteps  upon  the  pavement. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  raise  your  hopes  too  high," 
remarked  Baxter,  rising  from  his  chair  to  slap  him 
affectionately  upon  the  shoulder,  "he  is  n't  going  to 
make  you  president  of  the  bank,  but  of  the  Citizen's 
Improvement  League,  whose  object  is  to  oust  Jasper 
Trend,  you  know,  in  the  autumn.  The  Major  told 
me  before  he  left  that  you  'd  done  as  much  for  Tappa- 
hannock  in  two  years  as  any  other  man  had  done  in 
a  lifetime.  I  said  I  thought  he  'd  hit  the  nail  pretty 
squarely,  which  is  something  he  does  n't  generally 
manage  to  do." 

"So  I'm  to  fight  Jasper  Trend,  am  I?"  asked  Ord- 
way,  with  sudden  interest.  The  sound  of  his  throb- 
bing arteries  was  no  longer  in  his  ears,  and  as  he 
spoke,  he  felt  that  his  past  life  with  his  old  identity 
had  departed  from  him.  In  the  swift  renewal  of  his 
confidence  he  had  become  again  "Ten  Command- 
ment Smith"  of  Tappahannock. 

"Well,  you  see,  Jasper  has  been  a  precious  bad 
influence  around  here,"  pursued  Baxter,  engrossed 
in  the  political  scheme  he  was  unfolding.  "The 
only  thing  on  earth  he  's  got  to  recommend  him  is  his 
pretty  daughter.  Now,  I  've  a  soft  enough  heart, 
as  everybody  knows,  when  the  ladies  come  about — 
particularly  if  they  're  pretty — but  I  'm  ready  to  stand 
up  and  say  that  Jasper  Trend  can't  be  allowed  to 


154  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

run  this  town  on  the  platform  of  pure  chivalry. 
There  's  such  a  thing  as  fairness,  suh,  even  where 
women  are  concerned,  and  I  '11  back  my  word  with 
my  oath  that  it  ain't  fair! " 

"And  I'll  back  your  word  with  another  that  it 
isn  *t,"  rejoined  Ordway. 

"There's  no  doubt,  I  reckon,"  continued  Baxter, 
"that  Jasper  has  connived  with  those  disorderly 
saloons  that  you  've  been  trying  to  shut  up,  and  for 
all  his  money  and  the  men  he  employs  in  the  cotton 
mills  there  's  come  a  considerable  reaction  against  him 
in  public  sentiment.  Now,  I  ain't  afraid  to  say, 
Smith,"  he  concluded  with  an  ample  flourish  of  his 
dirty  hand,  "that  the  fact  that  there's  any  public 
sentiment  at  all  in  Tappahannock  is  due  to  you. 
Until  you  came  here  there  weren't  six  decent  men 
you  could  count  mixed  up  in  the  affairs  of  this  town. 
Jasper  had  everything  his  own  way,  that 's  why  he 
hates  you." 

"  But  I  was  n't  even  aware  that  he  did  me  so  much 
honour." 

"You  mean  he  has  n't  told  you  his  feelings  to  your 
face.  Well,  he  has  n't  gone  so  far  as  to  confide  them 
to  me  either — but  even  if  I  ain't  a  woman,  I  can  hear 
some  things  that  ain't  spoke  out  in  words.  He  'smade 
a  dirty  town  and  you  're  sweepin'  it  clean — do  you 
think  it  likely  that  it  makes  him  love  you?" 

"  He  's  welcome  to  feel  about  me  anyway  he  pleases, 
but  do  you  know,  Baxter,"  he  added  with  his  whim- 
sical gravity,  "I've  a  pretty  strong  conviction  that 
I'd  make  a  jolly  good  street  sweeper." 


IN  WHICH  A  STRANGER  APPEARS     155 

"I  reckon  you're  right!"  roared  Baxter,  "and 
when  you  're  done,  we  '11  shoot  off  some  sky-rockets 
over  the  job — so  there  you  are,  ain't  you?" 

"Ail  right — but  there  's  Jasper  Trend  also,"  retorted 
Ordway. 

"  Oh,  he  can  afford  to  send  off  his  own  sky-rockets. 
We  need  n't  bother  about  him.  He  won't  be  out  of 
a  job  like  Kelly,  you  know.  Great  Scott!  "  he  added, 
chuckling,  "  I  can  see  your  face  now  when  you  marched 
in  here  the  day  after  you  closed  Kelly's  saloon,  and 
told  me  you  had  to  start  a  man  in  tobacco  because 
you  'd  taken  him  out  of  whiskey." 

His  laugh  shook  through  his  figure  until  Ordway 
saw  his  fat  chest  heave  violently  beneath  his  alpaca 
coat.  Custom  had  made  the  younger  man  almost 
indifferent  to  the  external  details  which  had  once 
annoyed  him  in  his  employer,  and  he  hardly  noticed 
now  that  Baxter's  coat  was  turning  from  black  to 
green  and  that  the  old  ashes  from  his  pipe  had 
lodged  in  the  crumpled  bosom  of  his  shirt.  Baxter 
was — well,  Baxter,  and  tolerance  was  a  virtue  which 
one  acquired  sooner  or  later  in  Tappahannock. 

"I  suppose  I  might  as  well  get  at  Catesby  and 
Frazier  now,"  remarked  Ordway,  watching  the  other 
disinter  a  tattered  palm  leaf  fan  from  beneath  a  dusty 
pile  of  old  almanacs  and  catalogues. 

"Wait  a  minute  first,"  said  Baxter,  "there's  some- 
thing I  want  to  say  as  soon  as  I  get  settled.  I  ain't 
made  for  heat,  that 's  certain,"  he  pursued,  as  he 
pulled  off  his  coat,  and  hung  it  from  a  nail  in  the  wall, 
"it  sweats  all  my  morals  out  of  me." 


156  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

Detaching  the  collar  from  his  shirt,  he  placed  it 
above  his  coat  on  the  nail,  and  then  rolling  up  his 
shirt  sleeves,  sank,  with  a  panting  breath,  back  into 
his  chair. 

"  If  I  were  you  I  'd  get  out  of  this  at  night  anyway, 
Smith,"  he  urged.  "Why  don't  you  try  boarding 
for  the  next  few  months  over  at  Cedar  Hill.  It 
would  be  a  godsend  to  the  family,  now  that  Miss 
Emily's  school  has  stopped." 

"But  I  don't  suppose  they'd  take  me  in,"  replied 
Ordway,  staring  out  into  the  street,  where  the  dust 
rose  like  steam  in  the  air,  and  the  rough-coated 
country  horses  toiled  patiently  up  the  long  hill. 
Across  the  way  he  saw  the  six  stale  currant  buns  and 
the  three  bottles  of  pale  beer  behind  the  fly-specked 
window  panes  of  a  cheap  eating  house.  In  front  of 
them,  a  Negro  woman,  barefooted,  with  her  ragged 
calico  dress  tucked  up  about  her  waist,  was  sousing 
the  steaming  board  walk  with  a  pailful  of  dirty  water. 
From  his  memory  of  two  years  ago  there  floated  the 
mingled  odours  of  wild  flowers  and  freshly  turned 
earth  in  the  garden  of  Cedar  Hill,  and  Emily  appeared 
in  his  thoughts  only  as  an  appropriate  figure  against 
the  pleasant  natural  background  of  the  lilacs  and  the 
meadows.  In  the  past  year  he  had  seen  her  hardly 
more  than  a  dozen  times — mere  casual  glimpses  for 
the  most  part — and  he  had  almost  forgotten  his 
earlier  avoidance  of  her,  which  had  resulted  fiom  an 
instinctive  delicacy  rather  than  from  any  premed- 
itated purpose.  His  judgment  had  told  him  that  he 
had  no  right  to  permit  a  woman  to  become  his 


IN  WHICH  A  STRANGER  APPEARS    157 

friend  in  ignorance  of  his  past ;  and  at  the  same  time 
he  was  aware  of  a  terrible  shrinking  from  intruding 
his  old  self,  however  remotely,  into  the  new  life  at 
Tappahannock.  When  the  choice  came  between 
confessing  his  sin  and  sacrificing  the  chance 
acquaintance,  he  had  found  it  easier  simply  to  keep 
away  from  her  actual  presence.  Yet  his  interest 
in  her  had  been  so  closely  associated  with  his  larger 
feeling  for  humanity,  that  he  could  tell  himself  with 
sincerity  that  it  was  mere  folly  which  put  her  for- 
ward as  an  objection  to  his  boarding  for  the 
summer  at  Cedar  Hill. 

"The  truth  is,"  admitted  Baxter,  after  a  pause, 
"  that  Mrs.  Brooke  spoke  to  me  about  having  to  take 
a  boarder  or  two,  when  I  went  out  there  to  pay  Mr. 
Beverly  for  that  tobacco  I  couldn't  sell." 

"So  you  bought  it  in  the  end."  laughed  Ordway, 
"as  you  did  last  year  after  sending  me  out  there  on 
a  mission?" 

"Yes,  I  bought  it,"  replied  Baxter,  blushing  like 
a  boy  under  the  beads  of  perspiration  upon  his  face. 
"I  may  as  well  confess  it,  though  I  tried  to  keep  it 
secret.  But  I  ask  you  as  man  to  man,"  he  demanded 
warmly,  "was  there  another  blessed  thing  on  God's 
earth  for  me  to  do?" 

"  Let  Mr.  Beverly  go  about  his  business — that  *s 
what  I'd  have  done." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  would  n't,"  protested  Baxter  softly, 
"not  when  he'd  ruin  himself  for  you  to-morrow  if 
you  were  to  walk  out  and  ask  him." 

"But    he    couldn't,"    insisted    Ordway    with  the 


158  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

brutality  of  the  naked  fact,  "he  did  that  little  job 
on  his  own  account  too  long  ago." 

"But  that  ain't  the  point,  Smith,"  replied  Baxter 
in  an  awed  and  solemn  accent.  "The  point  ain't 
that  he  couldn't,  but  that  he  would.  As  I  make  it 
out  that's  the  point  which  has  cost  me  money  on  him 
for  the  last  thirty  years." 

"Oh,  well,  I  suppose  it's  a  charity  like  any  other, 
only  the  old  fool  is  so  pompous  about  his  poverty 
that  it  wears  me  out." 

"It  does  at  Tappahannock,  but  it  won't  when  you 
get  out  to  Cedar  Hill,  that's  the  difference  between 
Mr.  Beverly  in  the  air  and  Mr.  Beverly  in  the  flesh. 
The  one  wears  you  out,  the  other  rests  you  for  all 
his  darnation  foolishness.  Now,  you  can  board  out 
there  for  twenty-five  dollars  a  month  and  put  a  little 
ready  money  where  it  ought  to  be  in  Mrs.  Brooke's 
pocket." 

"  Of  course  I'd  like  it  tremendously,"  said  Ordway, 
after  a  moment  in  which  the  perfume  of  the  lilacs 
filled  his  memory.  "It  would  be  like  stepping  into 
heaven  after  that  stifling  little  room  under  the  tin 
roof  at  Mrs.  Twine's.  Do  you  know  I  slept  out  in 
the  fields  every  hot  night  last  summer?" 

"You  see  you  ain't  a  native  of  these  parts," 
remarked  Baxter  with  a  large  resigned  movement  of 
his  palm  leaf  fan,  "and  your  skin  ain't  thick  enough 
to  keep  out  the  heat.  I'll  speak  to  'em  at  Cedar  Hill 
this  very  day,  and  if  you  like,  I  reckon,  you  can  move 
out  at  the  beginning  of  the  week.  I  hope  if  you  do, 
Smith,  that  you'll  bear  with  Mr.  Beverly.  There's 


IN  WHICH  A  STRANGER  APPEARS    159 

nothing  in  the  universe  that  he  wouldn't  do  for  me 
if  he  had  the  chance.  It  ain't  his  fault,  you  see,  that 
he's  never  had  it." 

"Oh,  I  promise  you  I'll  bear  with  him,"  laughed 
Ordway,  as  he  left  the  office  and  went  out  into  the 
warehouse. 

The  knot  of  men  was  still  in  the  centre  of  ths 
building,  and  as  Ordway  walked  down  the  long  floor 
in  search  of  Catesby  and  Frazier,  he  saw  that  a 
stranger  had  drifted  in  during  his  half  hour  in  Baxter's 
office.  With  his  first  casual  glance  all  that  he 
observed  of  the  man  was  a  sleek  fair  head,  slightly 
bald  in  the  centre,  and  a  pair  of  abnormally  flat 
shoulders  in  a  light  gray  coat,  which  had  evidently 
left  a  clothing  shop  only  a  day  or  two  before.  Then 
as  Frazier — a  big,  loud  voiced  planter — turned  toward 
him  with  the  exclamation,  "here's  Smith,  himself, 
now!" — he  saw  the  stranger  wheel  round  abruptly 
and  give  vent  the  next  instant  to  a  sharp  whistle 
of  surprise. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  he  said. 

For  a  minute  the  tobacco  dust  filled  Ordway 's 
throat  and  nostrils,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  stifling 
for  a  breath  of  air.  The  dim  length  of  the  warehouse 
and  the  familiar  shadowy  figures  of  the  planters 
receded  before  his  eyes,  and  he  saw  again  the  bare 
walls  of  the  prison  chapel,  with  the  rows  of  convicts 
seated  in  the  pale,  greenish  light.  With  his 
recognition  of  the  man  before  him,  it  seemed  to  him 
suddenly  that  the  last  year  in  Tappaharmock  was  all 
a  lie.  The  prison  walls,  the  grated  windows,  and 


160  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

the  hard  benches  of  the  shoe  shop  were  closer  real- 
ities than  were  the  open  door  of  the  warehouse  and 
the  free,  hot  streets  of  the  little  town 

"I  am  very  happy  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Smith,"  said 
the  stranger,  as  he  held  out  his  hand  with  a  good- 
humoured  smile. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  returned  Ordway  quietly, 
"but  I  did  not  catch  your  name." 

At  the  handshake  a  chill  mounted  from  his  finger 
tips  to  his  shoulder,  but  drawing  slightly  away  he 
stood  his  ground  without  so  much  as  the  perceptible 
flicker  of  an  eyelash. 

"My  name  is  Brown — Horatio  Brown,  very  much 
at  your  service,"  answered  the  other,  with  a  manner 
like  that  of  a  successful,  yet  obsequious  commercial 
traveller. 

It  was  on  Ordway 's  tongue  to  retort:  "You  lie — 
it's  Gus  Wherry!" — but  checking  the  impulse  with 
a  frown,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  asked  the  two 
men  for  whom  he  was  looking  to  come  with  him  to 
settle  their  disagreement  in  Baxter's  office.  As  he 
moved  down  the  building  an  instant  later,  it  was  with 
an  effort  that  he  kept  his  gaze  fixed  straight  ahead 
through  the  archway,  for  he  was  aware  that 
every  muscle  in  his  body  pricked  him  to  turn 
back  and  follow  Wherry  to  the  end.  That  the 
man  would  be  forced,  in  self-defence,  to  keep  his 
secret  for  a  time  at  least,  he  had  caught  in  the  smiling 
insolence  of  his  glance;  but  that  it  was  possible  to 
enter  into  a  permanent  association  or  even  a  treaty 
with  Gus  Wherry,  he  knew  to  be  a  supposition  that 


IN  WHICH  A  STRANGER  APPEARS     161 

was  utterly  beyond  the  question.  The  crime  for 
which  the  man  had  been  sentenced  he  could  not 
remember;  but  he  had  a  vague  recollection  that 
something  morbidly  romantic  in  his  history  had 
combined  with  his  handsome  face  to  give  him  an 
ephemeral  notoriety  as  the  Adonis  of  imaginative 
shop-girls.  Even  in  prison  Wherry  had  attained  a  cer- 
tain prominence  because  of  his  beauty,  which  at  the 
time  when  Ordway  first  saw  him  had  been  conspic- 
uous in  spite  of  his  convict's  clothes.  In  the  years 
since  then  his  athletic  figure  had  grown  a  trifle  too 
heavy,  and  his  fair  hair  had  worn  a  little  thin  on  the 
crown  of  his  head;  yet  these  slight  changes  of  time 
had  left  him,  Ordway  admitted  reluctantly,  still 
handsome  in  the  brawny,  full-blooded  style,  which 
had  generally  made  fools  of  women.  His  lips  were 
still  as  red,  his  features  as  severely  classic,  and  his 
manner  was  not  less  vulgar,  and  quite  as  debonnair 
as  in  the  days  when  the  newspapers  had  clamoured 
for  his  pictures.  Even  the  soft,  girlish  cleft  in  his 
smooth-shaven  chin,  Ordway  remembered  now,  with 
a  return  of  the  instinctive  aversion  with  which  it  had 
first  inspired  him.  Yet  he  was  obliged  to  confess, 
as  he  walked  ahead  of  Catesby  and  Frazier  down 
the  dusty  floor  of  the  warehouse,  that  if  Wherry 
had  been  less  of  an  uncompromising  rascal,  he 
would  probably  have  made  a  particularly  amiable 
acquaintance. 


CHAPTER  II 
ORDWAY  COMPROMISES  WITH  THE  PAST 

WHEN  Ordway  came  out  of  Baxter's  office,  he 
found  that  Gus  Wherry  had  left  the  warehouse,  but 
the  effect  upon  him  of  the  man's  appearance  in 
Tappahannock  was  not  to  be  overcome  by  the  tem- 
porary withdrawal  of  his  visible  presence.  Not 
only  the  town,  but  existence  itself  seemed  altered, 
and  in  a  way  polluted,  by  the  obtrusion  of  Wherry's 
personality  upon  the  scene.  Though  he  was  not  in 
the  building,  Ordway  felt  an  angry  conviction  that 
he  was  in  the  air.  It  was  impossible  to  breathe 
freely  lest  he  might  by  accident  draw  in  some  insidi- 
ous poison  which  would  bring  him  under  the  influence 
of  his  past  life  and  of  Gus  Wherry. 

As  he  went  along  the  street  at  one  o'clock 
to  his  dinner  at  Mrs.  Twine's,  he  was  grateful  for  the 
intensity  of  the  sun,  which  rendered  him,  while  he 
walked  in  it,  almost  incapable  of  thought.  There 
was  positive  relief  in  the  fact  that  he  must  count  the 
uneven  lengths  of  board  walk  which  it  was  necessary 
for  him  to  traverse,  and  the  buzzing  of  the  blue  flies 
before  his  face  forced  his  attention,  at  the  minute, 
from  the  inward  to  the  outward  disturbance. 

When  he  reached  the  house,  Mrs.  Twine  met  him 
at  the  door  and  led  him,  with  an  inquiry  as  to  his 

162 


A  COMPROMISE  WITH  THE  PAST       163 

susceptibility  to  sunstroke,  into  the  awful  gloom  of 
her  tightly  shuttered  parlour. 

"I  declar'  you  do  look  well  nigh  in  yo'  last  gasp," 
she  remarked  cheerfully,  bustling  into  the  dining- 
room  for  a  palm  leaf  fan.  "Thar,  now,  come  right 
in  an'  set  down  an'  eat  yo'  dinner.  Hot  or  cold, 
glad  or  sorry,  I  never  saw  the  man  yit  that  could 
stand  goin'  without  his  dinner  at  the  regular 
hour.  Seen  is  the  habit  in  some  folks  that  I  remem- 
ber when  old  Mat  Fawling's  second  wife  died  he 
actually  hurried  up  her  funeral  an  hour  earlier  so 
as  to  git  back  in  time  for  dinner.  'It  ain't  that  I'm 
meanin'  any  disrespect  to  Sary,  Mrs.  Twine,'  he  said 
to  me  right  whar  I  was  lay  in'  her  out,  'but  the  truth 
is  that  I  can't  even  mourn  on  an  empty  stomach. 
The  undertaker  put  it  at  twelve,'  he  said,  'but  I 
reckon  we  might  manage  to  git  out  to  the  cemetery 
by  eleven.'" 

"All  the  same  if  you'll  give  me  a  slice  of  bread  and 
a  glass  of  milk,  I'll  take  it  standing,"  remarked 
Ordway.  "I'm  sorry  to  leave  you,  Mrs.  Twine,  even 
for  a  few  months,"  he  added,  "but  I  think  I'll  try 
to  get  board  outside  the  town  until  the  summer  is 
over." 

"Well,  I'll  hate  to  lose  you,  suh,  to  be  sure," 
responded  Mrs.  Twine,  dealing  out  the  fried  batter 
with  a  lavish  hand  despite  his  protest,  "for  I  respect 
you  as  a  fellow  mortal,  though  I  despise  you  as  a  sex." 

Her  hard  eyes  softened  as  she  looked  at  him;  but 
his  gaze  was  on  the  walnut  coloured  oilcloth,  where 
the  flies  dispersed  lazily  before  the  waving  elm  branch 


i64  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

in  the  hands  of  the  small  Negro,  and  so  he  did  not 
observe  the  motherly  tenderness  which  almost 
beautified  her  shrewish  face. 

"You've  been  very  kind  to  me,"  he  said,  as  he 
put  his  glass  and  plate  down,  and  turned  toward  the 
door.  "Whatever  happens  I  shall  always  remem- 
ber you  and  the  children  with  pleasure." 

She  choked  violently,  and  looking  back  at  the 
gasping  sound,  he  saw  that  her  eyes  had  filled  sud- 
denly with  tears.  Lifting  a  corner  of  her  blue 
gingham  apron,  she  mopped  her  face  in  a  furious 
effort  to  conceal  the  cause  of  her  unaccustomed 
emotion. 

"I  declar*  I'm  all  het  up,"  she  remarked  in  an 
indignant  voice,  "but  if  you  should  ever  need  a 
friend  in  sickness,  Mr.  Smith,"  she  added,  after  a 
moment  in  which  she  choked  and  coughed  under  the 
shelter  of  her  apron,  "you  jest  send  for  me  an'  I'll 
drop  every  thing  I've  got  an'  go.  I'll  leave  husband 
an'  children  without  a  thought,  suh,  an'  thar's  nothin* 
I  won't  do  for  you  with  pleasure ,  from  makin'  a 
mustard  plaster  to  layin'  out  yo'  corpse.  When  I'm 
a  friend,  I'm  a  friend,  if  I  do  say  it,  an'  you've  had 
a  way  with  me  from  the  very  first  minute  that  I 
clapped  eyes  upon  you.  'He  may  not  have  sech 
calves  as  you've  got,'  was  what  I  said  to  Bill,  'but 
he's  got  a  manner  of  his  own,  an'  I  reckon  it's  the 
manner  an'  not  the  calves  that  is  the  man.'  Not 
that  I'm  meaning  any  slur  on  yo'  shape,  suh,"  she 
hastened  to  explain. 

"Well,  I'll  come  to  see  you  now  and  then,"  said 


A  COMPROMISE  WITH  THE  PAST       165 

Ordway,  smiling,  "and  I  shan't  forget  to  take  the 
children  for  a  picnic  as  I  promised."  But  with  the 
words  he  remembered  Gus  Wherry,  as  he  had  seen 
him  standing  in  the  centre  of  Baxter's  warehouse, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  even  his  promise  to  the 
children  was  rendered  vain  and  worthless. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  immediately  after 
dinner  he  walked  over  to  Baxter's  house,  where  he 
learned  that  Mrs.  Brooke  had  expressed  her  willing- 
ness to  receive  him  upon  the  following  afternoon. 

"We  had  to  talk  Mr.  Beverly  over,"  said  Baxter, 
chuckling.  "At  first  he  didn't  like  the  idea  because 
of  some  notion  he'd  got  out  of  his  great-grandfathers 
head  about  the  sacredness  of  the  family  circle.  How- 
ever, he's  all  right  now,  though  if  you  take  my  advice, 
Smith,  you'll  play  a  game  of  dominoes  with  him 
occasionally  just  to  keep  him  kind  of  soft.  The 
chief  thing  he  has  against  you  is  your  preachin'  in 
the  fields,  for  he  told  me  he  could  never  bring  him- 
self to  countenance  religion  out  of  doors.  He  seems 
to  think  that  it  ought  to  be  kept  shut  up  tight." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  he  doesn't  have  to  listen  to  me," 
responded  Ordway.  "By  the  way,  you  know  I'm 
speaking  in  Catlett's  grove  of  pines  now.  It's 
pleasanter  away  from  the  glare  of  the  sun."  Then 
as  Baxter  pressed  him  to  come  back  to  supper,  he 
declined  the  oppressive  hospitality  and  went  back 
to  Mrs.  Twine's. 

That  afternoon  at  five  o'clock  he  went  out  to  the 
grove  of  pines  on  the  Southern  edge  of  the  town,  to  find 
his  congregation  gathered  ahead  of  him  on  the  rude 


j 66  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

plank  benches  which  had  been  placed  among  the 
trees.  The  sunshine  fell  in  drops  through  the  tent 
of  boughs  overhead,  and  from  the  southwest  a  pleas- 
ant breeze  had  sprung  up,  blowing  the  pine  needles 
in  eddies  about  his  feet.  At  sight  of  the  friendly 
faces  gathered  so  closely  around  him,  he  felt  his 
foreboding  depart  as  if  it  had  been  blown  from  him 
by  the  pure  breeze;  and  beginning  his  simple  dis- 
course, he  found  himself  absorbed  presently  in  the 
religious  significance  of  his  subject,  which  chanced 
to  be  an  interpretation  of  the  parable  of  the  prodigal 
son.  Not  until  he  was  midway  of  his  last  sentence 
did  he  discover  that  Gus  Wherry  was  standing  just 
beyond  the  little  wildrose  thicket  on  the  edge 
of  the  grove. 

In  the  instant  of  recognition  the  words  upon  his 
lips  sounded  strangely  hollow  and  meaningless  in  his 
ears,  and  he  felt  again  that  the  appearance  of  the 
man  had  given  the  lie,  not  only  to  his  identity,  but 
to  his  life.  He  knew  himself  at  the  instant  to  have 
changed  from  Daniel  Smith  to  Daniel  Ordway,  and 
the  name  that  he  had  worn  honestly  in  Tappahannock 
showed  to  him  suddenly  as  a  falsehood  and  a  cheat. 
Even  his  inward  motive  was  contemptible  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  felt  himself  dragged  back  in  a  single 
minute  to  the  level  upon  which  Wherry  stood.  As 
he  appeared  to  Wherry,  so  he  saw  himself  now  by 
some  distorted  power  of  vision,  and  even  his  religion 
seemed  but  a  convenient  mask  which  he  had  picked 
up  and  used.  When  he  went  on  a  moment  later  with 
his  closing  words,  he  felt  that  the  mockery  of  his 


A  COMPROMISE  WITH  THE  PAST       167 

speech  must  be  evident  to  the  ears  of  the  congregatioc 
that  knew  and  loved  him. 

The  gathering  broke  up  slowly,  but  after  speaking 
to  several  men  who  stood  near  him,  Ordway  turned 
away  and  went  out  into  the  road  which  led 
from  Tappahannock  in  the  direction  of  Cedar  Hill. 
Only  after  he  had  walked  rapidly  for  a  mile,  did  the 
sound  of  footsteps,  following  close  behind  him,  cause 
him  to  wheel  round  abruptly  with  an  impatient 
exclamation.  As  he  did  so,  he  saw  that  Wherry  had 
stopped  short  in  the  road  before  him. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  much  obliged  I  am  for 
your  talk,  Mr.  Smith,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  which 
appeared  to  flash  at  the  same  instant  from  his  eyes 
and  his  teeth.  "  I.  declare  you  came  pretty  near  con- 
verting me — by  Jove,  you  did.  It  wouldn't  be 
convenient  to  listen  to  you  too  often." 

Whatever  might  be  said  of  the  effusive  manner 
of  his  compliments,  his  good  humour  was  so  evident 
in  his  voice,  in  his  laugh,  and  even  in  his  conspicuously 
flashing  teeth,  that  Ordway,  who  had  been  prepared 
for  a  quarrel,  was  rendered  almost  helpless  by  so 
peaceable  an  encounter.  Turning  out  of  the  road, 
he  stepped  back  among  the  tall  weeds  growing  in 
the  corner  of  the  old  "worm"  fence,  and  rested  his 
tightly  clinched  hand  on  the  topmost  rail. 

"If  you  have  anything  to  say  to  me,  you  will  do 
me  a  favour  by  getting  it  over  as  soon  as  possible," 
he  rejoined  shortly. 

Wherry  had  taken  off  his  hat  and  the  red  disc  of 
the  setting  sun  made  an  appropriate  frame  for  his 


1 68  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

handsome  head,  upon  which  his  fair  hair  grew, 
Ordway  noticed,  in  the  peculiar  waving  circle  which 
is  found  on  the  heads  of  ancient  statues. 

"Well,  I  can't  say  that  I've  anything  to  remark 
except  that  I  congratulate  you  on  your  eloquence," 
he  replied,  with  a  kind  of  infernal  amiability.  "If 
this  is  your  little  game,  you  are  doing  it  with  a  success 
which  I  envy  from  my  boots  up." 

"Since  this  is  your  business  with  me,  there  is  no 
need  for  us  to  discuss  it  further,"  returned  Ordway, 
at  white  heat. 

"Oh,  but  I  say,  don't  hurry — what's  the  use? 
You're  afraid  I'm  going  to  squeeze  you,  now,  isn't 
that  it?" 

"You'll  get  nothing  out  of  me  if  you  try." 

"That's  as  much  as  I  want,  I  guess.  Have  I  asked 
you  for  as  much  as  a  darned  cent?  Haven't  I  played 
the  gentleman  from  the  first  minute  that  I  spotted 
you?" 

Ordway  nodded.  "Yes,  I  suppose  you've  been 
as  fair  as  you  knew  how,"  he  answered,  "I'll  do  you 
the  justice  to  admit  that." 

"Well,  I  tell  you  now,"  said  Wherry,  growing  con- 
fidential as  he  approached,  "my  object  isn't  blackmail, 
it's  human  intercourse.  I  want  a  decent  word  or 
two,  that's  all,  on  my  honour." 

"But  I  won't  talk  to  you.  I've  nothing  further 
to  say,  that's  to  be  understood." 

"You're  a  confounded  bully,  that's  what  you  are," 
observed  Wherry,  in  the  playful  tones  which  he  might 
have  used  to  a  child  or  an  animai.  "Now,  I  don't 


A  COMPROMISE  WITH  THE  PAST       169 

want  a  blooming  cent  out  of  you,  that's  flat — all  I 
ask  for  is  a  pleasant  word  or  two  just  as  from  man 
to  man." 

"  Then  why  did  you  follow  me?  And  what  are 
you  after  in  Tappahannock  ? " 

Wherry  laughed  hilariously,  while  his  remarkably 
fine  teeth  became  the  most  prominent  feature  in 
his  face. 

"The  reply  to  your  question,  Smith,"  he  answered 
pleasantly,  "is  that  I  followed  you  to  say  that  you're 
an  all-fired,  first  rate  sort  of  a  preacher — there's  not 
harm  in  that  much,  is  there?  If  you  don't  want  me 
to  chaff  you  about  it,  I'll  swear  to  be  as  dead  serious 
on  the  subject  as  if  it  were  my  wife's  funeral.  What 
I  want  is  your  hand  down,  I  say — no  matter  what 
is  trumps!" 

"My  hand  down  for  what?"  demanded  Ordway. 

"Just  for  plain  decency,  nothing  more,  I  swear. 
You've  started  on  your  road,  arid  I've  started  on  mine, 
and  the  square  thing  is  to  live  and  let  live,  that's  as 
1  see  it.  Leave  room  for  honest  repentance  to  go  to 
work,  but  don't  begin  to  pull  back  before  it's  had 
a  chance  to  begin.  Ain't  we  all  prodigals,  when  it 
comes  to  that,  and  the  only  difference  is  that  some 
of  us  don't  get  a  bite  at  the  fatted  calf." 

For  a  moment  Ordway  stared  in  silence  to  where 
the  other  stood  with  his  face  turned  toward  the  red 
light  of  the  sunset. 

"We're  all  prodigals,"  repeated  Wherry,  as  if 
impressed  by  the  ethical  problem  he  had  uttered 
unawares,  "you  and  me  and  the  President  and  every 


1 70  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

man.  We've  all  fallen  from  grace,  ain't  we? — and 
it's  neither  here  nor  there  that  you  and  I  have  got 
the  swine  husks  while  the  President  has  stuffed  and 
eaten  the  fatted  calf." 

"  If  you've  honestly  meant  to  begin  again,  I  have 
certainly  no  wish  to  interfere,"  remarked  Ordway, 
ignoring  the  other's  excursion  into  the  field  of  phil- 
osophy. As  he  spoke,  however,  it  occurred  to  him 
that  Wherry's  reformation  might  have  had  better 
chance  of  success  if  it  had  been  associated  with  fewer 
physical  advantages. 

"Well,  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Wherry, 
"and  I'll  say  the  same  by  you,  here's  my  hand  on  it. 
Rise  or  fall,  we'll  play  fair." 

"You  haven't  told  me  yet  why  you  came  to 
Tappahannock,"  rejoined  Ordway,  shortly. 

"Oh,  a  little  matter  of  business.  Are  you  settled 
here  now?" 

"At  the  moment  you  can  answer  that  question 
better  than  I." 

"You  mean  when  I  come,  you  quit?" 

Ordway  nodded.     "That's  something  like  it." 

"Well,  I  shan't  drive  you  out  if  I  can  help  it — I 
hate  to  play  the  sneak.  The  truth  is  if  you'd  only 
get  to  believe  it,  there's  not  a  more  peaceable  fellow 
alive  if  I  don't  get  backed  up  into  a  place  where 
there's  no  way  out.  When  it  comes  to  that  I  like 
the  clean,  straight  road  best,  and  I  always  have. 
From  first  to  last,  though,  it's  the  women  that  have, 
been  dead  against  me,  and  I  may  say  that  a  woman — 
one  or  more  of  'em — has  been  back  of  every  single 


A  COMPROMISE  WITH  THE  PAST       171 

scrape  I  ever  got  into  in  my  life.  If  I'd  had  ten 
thousand  a  year  and  a  fine  looking  wife,  I'd  have 
been  a  pillar  in  the  Church  and  the  father  of  a  family. 
My  tastes  all  lean  that  way,"  he  added  sentimentally. 
"I've  always  had  a  weakness  for  babies,  and  I've 
got  it  to  this  day." 

As  he  could  think  of  nothing  to  reply  to  this  touch- 
ing confession,  Ordway  picked  up  a  bit  of  wood  from 
the  ground,  and  taking  out  his  knife,  began  whittling 
carelessly  while  he  waited. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  want  to  work  you  for  that 
fat  old  codger  in  the  warehouse,"  observed  Wherry 
suddenly,  passing  lightly  from  the  pathetic  to  the 
facetious  point  of  view,  "but  I'll  give  you  my  word 
I  haven't  thought  of  it  a  minute."' 

"I'm  glad  you  haven't,"  returned  Ordway,  quietly, 
"for  yc*u  would  be  disappointed." 

"You  mean  you  wouldn't  trust  me?" 

"I  mean  there's  no  place  there.  Whether  I  trust 
you  or  not  is  another  question — and  I  don't." 

"Do  you  think  I'd  turn  sneak?" 

"I  think  if  you  stay  in  Tappahannock  that  I'll 
clear  out." 

"Well,  you're  a  darn  disagreeable  chap,"  said 
Wherry,  indignantly,  "particularly  after  all  you've 
had  to  say  about  the  prodigal.  But,  all  the  same," 
he  added,  as  his  natural  amiability  got  the  better  of 
his  temper,  "it  isn't  likely  that  I'll  pitch  my  tent 
here,  so  you  needn't  begin  to  pack  for  a  day  or  two 
at  least." 

"Do  you  expect  to  go  shortly?" 


i;2  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"How  about  to-morrow?     Would  that  suit  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ordway,  gravely,  "better  than  the 
day  afterward."  He  threw  the  bit  of  wood  away 
and  looked  steadily  into  the  other's  face.  "  If  I  can 
help  you  live  honestly,  I  am  ready  to  do  it,"  he  added. 

"Ready?     How?" 

"However  I  can." 

"Well,  you  can't — not  now,"  returned  Wherry, 
laughing,  "because  I've  worked  that  little  scheme 
already  without  your  backing.  Honesty  is  going  to 
be  my  policy  from  yesterday  on.  Did  you,  by  the 
way,"  he  added  abruptly,  "ever  happen  to  run  up 
against  Jasper  Trend?" 

"Jasper  Trend?"  exclaimed  Ordway,  "why,  yes, 
'he  owns  the  cotton  mills." 

"He  makes  a  handsome  little  pile  out  of  'em  too, 
I  guess?" 

"I  believe  he  does.  Are  you  looking  for  a  job 
with  him?" 

At  this  Wherry  burst  again  into  his  hilarious 
humour.  "If  I  am,"  he  asked  jokingly,  "will  you 
promise  to  stand  off  and  not  spoil  the  game?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  Trend,"  replied  Ord- 
way. "but  the  day  you  come  here  is  my  last  in 
Tappahannock." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  for  that,"  remarked  Wherry, 
pleasantly,  "for  it  appears  to  be  a  dull  enough  place 
even  "with  the  addition  of  your  presence."  He  put 
on  his  hat  and  held  out  his  hand  with  a  friendly 
gesture.  "Are  you  ready  to  walk  back  now?"  he 
inquired. 


A  COMPROMISE  WITH  THE  PAST      173 

"When  I  am,"  answered  Ordway,  "I  shall  walk 
back  alone.*' 

Even  this  rebuff  Wherry  accepted  with  his  in- 
vincible good  temper. 

"Every  man  to  his  company,  of  course,"  he  re- 
sponded, "but  as  to  my  coming  to  Tappahannock, 
if  it  is  any  comfort  to  you  to  know  it,  you  needn't 
begin  to  pack." 


CHAPTER  III 
A  CHANGE  OF  LODGING 

WHEN  Ordway  awoke  the  next  morning,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  Wherry  had  taken  his  place  among  the 
other  nightmares,  which,  combined  with  the  reflected 
heat  from  the  tin  roof,  had  rendered  his  sleep  broken 
and  distracted.  With  the  sunrise  his  evil  dreams 
and  his  recollections  of  Wherry  had  scattered  to- 
gether, and  when,  after  the  early  closing  at  Baxter's 
warehouse,  he  drove  out  to  Cedar  Hill,  with  the 
leather-  bag  containing  his  few  possessions  at  his 
feet,  he  felt  that  there  had  been  something  morbid, 
almost  inhuman,  in  the  loathing  aroused  in  him  by 
the  handsome  face  of  his  fellow  prisoner.  In  any 
case,  for  good  or  for  evil,  he  determined  to  banish  the 
man  utterly  from  his  thoughts. 

The  vehicle  in  which  he  sat  was  an  ancient  gig 
driven  by  a  decrepit  Negro,  and  as  it  drew  up  before 
the  steps  at  Cedar  Hill,  he  was  conscious  almost  of  a 
sensation  of  shame  because  he  had  not  approached 
the  ruined  mansion  on  foot.  Then  descending 
over  the  dusty  wheel,  he  lifted  out  his  bag,  and 
rapped  twice  upon  the  open  door  with  the  greenish 
knocker  which  he  supposed  had  once  been  shining 
brass.  Through  the  hall  a  sleepy  breeze  blew 
from  the  honeysuckle  arbour  over  the  back 


A  CHANGE  OF  LODGING  175 

porch,  and  at  his  right  hand  the  swinging  sword 
still  clanked  against  the  discoloured  plaster.  Sa 
quiet  was  the  house  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  move- 
ment of  life  within  had  been  suspended,  and  when 
at  last  the  figure  of  Mrs.  Brooke  floated  down  the 
great  staircase  under  the  pallid  light  from  the  win- 
dow above,  she  appeared  to  him  as  the  disembodied 
spirit  of  one  of  the  historic  belles  who  had  tripped  up 
and  down  in  trailing  brocades  and  satin  shoes.  In- 
stead of  coming  toward  him,  she  completed  her 
ghostly  impression  by  vanishing  suddenly  into  the 
gloom  beyond  the  staircase,  and  a  moment  after- 
ward his  knock  was  answered  by  a  small,  embarrassed 
darky  in  purple  calico.  Entering  the  dining- 
room  by  her  invitation,  he  stumbled  upon  Beverly 
stretched  fast  asleep,  and  snoring  slightly,  upon  a 
horsehair  sofa,  with  the  brown  and  white  setter  dozing 
on  a  mat  at  his  feet.  At  the  approach  of  footsteps, 
the  dog,  without  lifting  its  head,  began  rapping  the 
floor  heavily  with  its  tail,  and  aroused  by  the  sound, 
Beverly  opened  one  eye  and  struggled  confusedly 
into  an  upright  position, 

"  I  was  entirely  overcome  by  the  heat,"  he  remarked 
apologetically,  as  he  rose  from  the  sofa  and  held  out 
his  hand,  "but  it  is  a  pleasure  to  see  you,  Mr.  Smith. 
I  hope  you  did  not  find  the  sun  oppressive  on  your 
drive  out.  Amelia,  my  dear,"  he  remarked  cour- 
teously, as  Mrs.  Brooke  entered  in  a  freshly  starched 
print  gown,  "I  feel  a  return  of  that  strange  dizziness 
I  spoke  of,  so  if  it  will  not  inconvenience  you,  may 
I  beg  for  another  of  your  refreshing  lemonades?" 


176  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

Mrs.  Brooke,  who  had  just  completed  the  hasty 
ironing  of  her  dress,  which  she  had  put  on  while  it 
was  still  warm,  met  his  request  with  an  amiable  but 
exhausted  smile. 

"Don't  you  think  six  lemonades  in  one  day  too 
many?'*  she  asked  anxiously,  When  she  had  shaken 
hands  with  Ordway. 

"But  this  strange  dizziness,  my  dear?  An  iced 
drink,  I  find  far  more  effective  than  a  bandage." 

"Very  well,  I'll  make  it  of  course,  if  it  gives  you  any 
relief,"  replied  his  wife,  Wondering  if  she  Would  be  able 
to  bake  the  bread  by  the  time  Beverly  demanded 
supper.  "If  you'll  come  up  stairs  now,  Mr.  Smith/* 
she  added,  "  Malviny  will  show  you  to  the  blue  room." 

Malviny,  who  proved  upon  further  acquaintance 
to  be  the  eldest  great-grandchild  of  Aunt  Mehitable, 
descended  like  a  hawk  upon  his  waiting  property, 
while  Mrs.  Brooke  led  the  procession  up  the  staircase 
to  an  apartment  upon  the  second  floor. 

The  blue  room,  as  he  discovered  presently,  con- 
tained a  few  rather  fine  pieces  of  old  mahogany,  a 
grandfather's  chair,  with  a  freshly  laundered  chintz 
cover,  and  a  rag  carpet  made  after  the  "log  cabin" 
pattern.  Of  the  colour  from  which  it  had  taken  its 
name,  there  v/as  visible  only  a  faded  sampler  worked 
elaborately  in  peacock  blue  worsteds,  by  one 
"Margaret,  aged  nine."  Beyond  this  the  walls  were 
bare  of  decoration,  though  an  oblong  streak  upon 
the  plaster  suggested  to  Ordway  that  a  family 
portrait  had  probably  been  removed  in  the  hurried 
preparations  for  his  arrival. 


A  CHANGE  OF  LODGING  177 

After  remarking  that  she  hoped  he  would  "  make 
himself  quite  at  home,"  Mrs.  Brooke  Was  glancing 
inquiringly  about  the  room  with  her  large,  pale, 
rather  prominent  eyes,  when  a  flash  of  purple  in  the 
doorway  preceded  the  announcement  that  "Marse 
Beverly  done  turn  right  green  wid  de  dizziness,  en 
wus  axin'  kinder  faintlike  fur  his  lemonade." 

"My  poor  husband,"  explained  the  exhausted 
wife,  "contracted  a  chronic  heart  trouble  in  the 
War,  and  he  suffers  so  patiently  that  at  times  we 
are  in  danger  of  forgetting  it." 

Pressing  her  aching  head,  she  hurried  downstairs 
to  prepare  Beverly's  drink,  while  Ordway,  after 
closing  the  broken  latch  of  the  door,  walked  slowly 
up  and  down  the  large,  cool,  barely  furnished  room. 
After  his  cramped  chamber  at  Mrs.  Twine's  his  eyes 
rested  with  contentment  upon  the  high  white  ceiling 
overhead,  and  then  descended  leisurely  to  the  stately 
bedstead,  with  its  old  French  canopy  above,  and  to 
the  broad,  red  brick  hearth  freshly  filled  with  odor- 
ous boughs  of  cedar.  The  cleanly  quiet  of  the  place 
restored  to  him  at  once  the  peace  which  he  had 
missed  in  the  last  few  days  in  Tappahannock,  and  his 
nerves,  which  had  revolted  from.  Mrs.  Twine's  scold- 
ing voice  and  slovenly  table,  became  composed 
again  in  the  ample  space  of  these  high  white  walls. 
Even  "Margaret,  aged  nine,"  delivered  a  soothing 
message  to  him  in  the  faded  blues  of  her  crewel  work. 

When  he  had  unpacked  his  bag,  he  drew  the  chintz- 
covered  chair  to  the  window,  and  leaning  his  elbow 
on  the  sill,  looked  out  gratefully  upon  the  overgrown 


1 78  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

lawn  filled  with  sheepmint  and  clover.  Though  it 
was  already  twilight  under  the  cedars,  the  lawn  was 
still  bright  with  sunshine,  and  beyond  the  dwindling 
clump  of  cabbage  roses  in  the  centre,  he  saw  that  the 
solitary  cow  had  not  yet  finished  her  evening  meal. 
As  he  watched  her,  his  ears  caught  the  sound  of  light 
footsteps  on  the  porch  below,  and  a  moment  after- 
ward, he  saw  Emily  pass  from  the  avenue  to  the  edge 
of  the  lawn,  where  she  called  the  cow  by  name  in  a 
caressing  voice.  Lifting  her  head,  the  animal  started 
at  a  slow  walk  through  the  tangled  weeds,  stopping 
from  time  to  time  to  bite  a  particularly  tempting 
head  of  purple  clover.  As  the  setting  sun  was  in 
Emily's  eyes,  she  raised  her  bared  arm  while  she 
Waited,  to  shield  her  forehead,  and  Ordway  was 
struck  afresh  by  the  vigorous  grace  which  showed  itself 
in  her  slightest  movement.  The  blue  cotton  dress 
she  wore,  which  had  shrunk  from  repeated  washings 
until  it  had  grown  scant  in  the  waist  and  skirt,  re- 
vealed the  firm  rounded  curve  of  her  bosom  and  her 
slender  hips.  Standing  there  in  the  faint  sunshine 
against  the  blue-black  cedars,  he  felt  her  charm  in 
some  mysterious  way  to  be  akin  to  the  beauty  of 
the  hour  and  the  scene.  The  sight  of  her  blue  gown 
was  associated  in  his  mind  with  a  peculiar  fresh- 
ness of  feeling — an  intensified  enjoyment  of  life. 

When  the  cow  reached  her  side,  the  girl  turned 
back  toward  the  barnyard,  and  the  two  passed  out  of 
sight  together  beyond  the  avenue.  As  he  followed 
them  with  his  gaze,  Ordway  had  no  longer  any 
thought  of  Gus  Wherry,  or  of  his  possible  presence 


A  CHANGE  OF  LODGING  179 

in  Tappahannock  upon  the  morrow.  The  evil 
association  was  withdrawn  now  from  his  conscious- 
ness, and  in  its  place  he  found  the  tranquil  pleasure 
which  he  had  felt  while  he  watched  the  sunshine  upon 
the  sheepmint  and  clover — a  pleasure  not  unlike 
that  he  had  experienced  when  Emily's  blue  cotton 
dress  was  visible  against  the  cedars.  The  faces  of 
the  men  who  had  listened  to  him  yesterday  returned 
to  his  memory;  and  as  he  saw  them  again  seated  on 
the  rude  benches  among  the  pines,  his  heart  expanded 
in  an  emotion  which  was  like  the  melting  of  his  will 
into  the  Divine  Will  which  contained  and  enveloped 
all. 

A  knock  at  the  door  startled  him  back  to  his  sur- 
roundings, and  when  he  went  to  answer  it,  he  found 
the  small  frightened  servant  standing  outside,  with  an 
old  serving  tray  clutched  desperately  to  her  bosom. 
From  her  excited  stutter  he  gathered  that  supper 
awaited  him  upon  the  table,  and  descending  hastily, 
he  found  the  family  already  assembled  in  the  dining- 
room.  Beverly  received  him  graciously,  Emily 
quietly,  and  the  children  assured  him  enthusiastically 
that  they  were  glad  he  had  come  to  stay  because  now 
they  might  eat  ham  every  night.  When  they  had 
been  properly  suppressed  by  Emily,  her  brother 
took  up  the  conversation  which  he  carried  on  in  a 
polite,  rambling  strain  that  produced  upon  Ordway 
the  effect  of  a  monologue  delivered  in  sleep. 

"I  hope  the  birds  won't  annoy  you  at  daybreak, 
Mr.  Smith,"  he  remarked,  "the  ivy  at  your  windows 
harbours  any  number  of  wrens  and  sparrows." 


i So  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Oh,  I  like  them,"  replied  Ordway,  "I've  been 
sleeping  under  a  tin  roof  in  Tappahannock 
which  no  intelligent  bird  or  human  being  would 
approach. 

"I  remember,"  said  Mr.  Beverly  pensively,  "that 
there  was  a  tin  roof  on  the  hotel  at  Richmond  I 
stayed  at  during  the  War  when  I  first  met  my  wife. 
Do  you  recall  how  very  unpleasant  that  tin  roof  was, 
Amelia?  Or  were  you  too  young  at  the  time  to 
notice  it?  You  couldn't  have  been  more  than  fifteen, 
I  suppose?  Yes,  you  must  have  been  sixteen,  be- 
cause I  remember  when  I  marched  past  the  door 
with  my  regiment,  I  noticed  you  standing  on  the 
balcony,  in  a  long  white  dress,  and  you  couldn't  have 
worn  long  dresses  before  you  were  sixteen." 

Mrs.  Brooke  glanced  up  calmly  from  the  coffee-pot. 

"The  roof  was  slate,"  she  remarked  with  the  rigid 
adherence  to  a  single  idea,  which  characterised  her 
devoted  temperament. 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,  it  was  slate,"  admitted  Beverly, 
turning  his  genial  face  upon  Ordway,  "and  I  remem- 
ber now  it  wasn't  the  roof  that  was  unpleasant,  but 
the  food — the  food  was  very  unpleasant  indeed,  was 
it  not,  Amelia?" 

"I  don't  think  we  ever  got  enough  of  it  to  test  its 
quality,"  replied  Mrs.  Brooke,  "poor  mama  was  so 
reduced  at  the  end  of  a  month  that  she  had  to  take 
up  three  inches  of  her  bodice." 

"It's  quite  clear  to  me  now,"  observed  Beverly, 
delightedty,  "it  was  not  that  the  food  was  unpleasant, 
but  that  it  was  scarce — very  scarce." 


A  CHANGE  OF  LODGING  181 

He  had  finished  his  supper;  and  when  he  had  risen 
from  the  table  with  his  last  amiable  words,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  install  himself,  without  apparent  selection, 
into  the  only  comfortable  chair  which  the  room  con- 
tained. Drawing  out  his  pipe  a  moment  afterward, 
he  waved  Ordway,  with  a  hospitable  gesture,  to  a 
stiff  wooden  seat,  and  invited  him  in  a  persuasive 
tone,  to  join  him  in  a  smoke. 

"My  tobacco  is  open  to  you,"  he  observed,  "but  I 
regret  to  say  that  I  am  unable  to  offer  you  a  cigar. 
Yet  a  cigar,  I  maintain,  is  the  only  form  in  which 
a  gentleman  should  use  tobacco." 

Ordway  took  out  the  leather  case  he  carried  and 
offered  it  to  him  with  a  smile. 

"I'm  afraid  they  are  not  all  that  they  might  be," 
he  remarked,  as  Beverly  supplied  himself  with  a 
murmured  word  of  thanks. 

Mrs.  Brooke  brought  out  her  darning,  and  Emily, 
after  disappearing  into  the  pantry,  sent  back  the 
small  servant  for  the  dishes.  The  girl  did  not  return 
again  before  Ordway  took  his  candle  from  the  mantel- 
piece and  went  upstairs;  and  he  remembered  after 
he  had  reached  his  bedroom  that  she  had  spoken 
hardly  two  words  during  the  entire  evening.  Had 
she  any  objection,  he  asked  himself  now,  to  his 
presence  in  the  household?  Was  it  possible,  indeed, 
that  Mrs.  Brooke  should  have  taken  him  in  against 
her  sister-in-law's  inclination,  or  even  without  her 
knowledge?  In  the  supposition  there  was  not  only 
embarrassment,  but  a  sympathetic  resentment ;  and 
he  resolved  that  if  such  proved  to  be  the  case,  he  was 


i82  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

in  honour  bound  to  return  immediately  to  Tappa- 
hannock.  Then  he  remembered  the  stifling  little 
room  under  the  tin  roof  with  a  feeling  of  thankful- 
ness for  at  least  this  one  night's  escape. 

Awaking  at  dawn  he  lay  for  a  while  contentedly 
listening  to  the  flutter  of  the  sparrows  in  the  ivy,  and 
watching  the  paling  arch  of  the  sky  beyond  the 
pointed  tops  of  the  cedars.  A  great  peace  seemed 
to  encompass  him  at  the  moment,  and  he  thought 
with  gratitude  of  the  quiet  evening  he  had  spent  with 
Beverly.  It  was  dull  enough  probably,  when  one 
came  to  think  of  it,  yet  the  simple  talk,  the  measured 
courtesies,  returned  to  him  now  as  a  part  of  the 
pleasant  homeliness  of  his  surroundings.  The  soft 
starlight  on  the  sheepmint  and  clover,  the  chirp  of  the 
small  insects  in  the  trees,  the  refreshing  moisture  which 
had  crept  toward  him  with  the  rising  dew,  the  good- 
night kisses  of  the  children,  delivered  under  protest 
and  beneath  Mrs.  Brooke's  eyes — all  these  trivial 
recollections  were  attended  in  his  thoughts  by  a 
train  of  pensive  and  soothing  associations. 

Across  the  hall  he  heard  the  soft  opening  and 
closing  of  a  door,  and  immediately  afterward  the 
sound  of  rapid  footsteps  growing  fainter  as  they 
descended  the  staircase.  Already  the  room  was  full 
of  a  pale  golden  light,  and  as  he  could  not  sleep 
again  because  of  the  broken  shutter  to  the  window 
which  gave  on  the  lawn,  he  rose  and  dressed  himself 
with  an  eagerness  which  recalled  the  early  morning 
risings  of  his  childhood.  A  little  later  when  he  went 
downstairs,  he  found  that  the  front  door  was  still 


A  CHANGE  OF  LODGING  183 

barred,  and  removing  the  heavy  iron  fastenings,  he 
descended  the  steps  into  the  avenue,  where  the  faint 
sunbeams  had  not  yet  penetrated  the  thick  screen  of 
boughs.  Remembering  the  garden,  while  he  stood 
watching  the  sunrise  from  the  steps,  he  turned 
presently  into  the  little  footpath  which  led 
by  the  house,  and  pushing  aside  the  lilacs, 
from  which  the  blossoms  had  all  dropped,  he 
leaned  on  the  swinging  gate  before  the  beds  he 
had  spaded  on  those  enchanted  nights.  Now  the 
rank  weeds  were  almost  strangling  the  plants,  and 
it  occurred  to  him  that  there  was  still  work 
ready  for  his  hand  in  the  Brooke's  garden. 
He  was  telling  himself  that  he  would  begin 
clearing  the  smothered  rows  as  soon  as  his  morning 
at  the  warehouse  was  over,  when  the  old  hound  ran 
suddenly  up  to  him,  and  turning  quickly  he  saw 
Emily  coming  from  the  springhouse  with  a  print  of 
golden  butter  in  her  hand. 

"So  it  was  you  I  heard  stirring  before  sunrise!" 
he  exclaimed  impulsively,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  her 
radiant  face,  over  which  the  early  mist  had  scattered 
a  pearly  dew  like  the  fragrant  moisture  upon  a  rose. 

"Yes,  it  was  I.  At  four  o'clock  I  remembered 
there  was  no  butter  for  breakfast,  so  I  got  up  and 
betook  myself  to  the  churn." 

"And  this  is  the  result?"  he  asked,  glancing  down 
at  the  delicious  creamy  mould  she  had  just  worked 
into  shape  and  crowned  with  a  printed  garland  of 
thistles.  "It  makes  me  hungry  enough  for  my 
muffins  upon  the  minute." 


1 84  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"You  shall  have  them  shortly,"  she  said,  smiling, 
"but  do  you  prefer  pop-overs  or  plain?" 

He  met  the  question  with  serious   consideration. 

"Well,  if  the  choice  is  mine  I  think  I'll  have  pop- 
overs,"  he  replied. 

Before  his  unbroken  gravity  her  quick  humour 
rippled  forth. 

"Then  I  must  run  to  Aunt  Mehitable,"  she 
responded  merrily,  "for  I  suspect  that  she  has  al- 
ready made  them  plain." 

With  a  laughing  nod  she  turned  from  him,  and 
following  the  little  path  entered  the  house  under  the 
honeysuckle  arbour  on  the  back  porch. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SHOWS  THAT  A  LAUGH  DOES  NOT  HEAL 
A  HEARTACHE 

WHEN  Emily  entered  the  dining-room,  she  found 
that  Beverly  had  departed  from  his  usual  custom 
sufficiently  to  appear  in  time  for  breakfast. 

"I  hardly  got  a  wink  of  sleep  last  night,  my  dear," 
he  remarked,  "and  I  think  it  was  due  entirely  to  the 
heavy  supper  you  insisted  upon  giving  us." 

"But,  Beverly,  we  must  have  hot  things  now," 
said  Emily,  as  she  arranged  the  crocheted  centre- 
piece upon  the  table.  "  Mr.  Smith  is  our  boarder, 
you  know,  not  our  guest." 

"The  fact  that  he  is  a  boarder,"  commented 
Beverly,  with  dignity,  "entirely  relieves  me  of  any 
feeling  of  responsibility  upon  his  account.  If  he 
were  an  invited  guest  in  the  house,  I  should  feel  as 
you  do  that  hot  suppers  are  a  necessity,  but  when 
a  man  pays  for  the  meals  he  eats,  we  are  no  longer 
under  an  obligation  to  consider  his  preferences." 

"His  presence  in  'the  household  is  a  great 
trial  to  us  all,"  observed  his  wife,  whose  atti- 
tude of  general  acceptance  was  modified  by  the 
fact  that  she  accepted  everything  for  the  worst. 
Her  sense  of  tragic  values  had  been  long  since  obliter- 
ated by  a  gray  wash  of  melancholy  that  covered  all. 

'85 


i86  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Well,  I  don't  see  that  he  is  very  zealous  about 
interfering  with  us,"  remarked  Emily,  almost  indig- 
nantly, "he  doesn't  appear  to  be  of  a  particularly 
sociable  disposition." 

"Yes,  I  agree  with  you  that  he  is  unusually  depress- 
ing," rejoined  Mrs.  Brooke.  "It's  a  pity,  perhaps, 
that  we  couldn't  have  secured  a  blond  person — they 
are  said  to  be  of  a  more  sanguine  temperament,  and 
I  remember  that  the  blond  boarder  at  Miss  Jennie 
Colton's,  when  I  called  there  once,  was  exceedingly 
lively  and  entertaining.  But  it's  too  late,  of  course, 
to  give  advice  now;  I  can  only  hope  and  pray  that  his 
morals,  at  least,  are  above  reproach." 

As  the  entire  arrangement  with  Baxter  had  been 
made  by  Mrs.  Brooke  herself  upon  the  day  that 
Wilson,  the  grocer,  had  sent  in  his  "bill  for  the  fifth 
time,  Emily  felt  that  an  impatient  rejoinder  tripped 
lightly  upon  her  tongue;  but  restraining  her  Words 
with  an  effort,  she  observed  cheerfully  an  instant  later 
that  she  hoped  Mr.  Smith  would  cause  no  inconven- 
ience to  the  family. 

"Well,  he  seems  to  be  a  respectable  enough  person," 
admitted  Beverly,  in  his  gracious  manner,  "but,  of 
course,  if  he  were  to  become  offensively  presuming 
it  would  be  a  very  simple  matter  to  drop  him  a 
hint." 

"  It  reminds  me  of  a  case  I  read  of  in  the  newspaper 
a  few  weeks  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Brooke,  "where  a  family 
in  Roanoke  took  a  stranger  to  board  with  them  and 
shortly  afterward  were  all  poisoned  by  a  powder 
in  the  soup.  No,  they  weren't  all  poisoned,"  she 


A  LAUGH  DOES  NOT  HEAL  187 

corrected  herself  thoughtfully,  "for  I  am  positive 
now  that  the  boarder  was  the  only  one  who  died.  It 
was  the  cook  who  put  the  poison  into  the  soup  and 
the  boarder  who  ate  all  of  it.  I  remember  the 
Coroner  remarked  at  the  inquest  that  he  had  saved 
the  lives  of  the  entire  family." 

"All  the  same  I  hope  Mr.  Smith  won't  eat  all  the 
soup,"  observed  Emily. 

"It  terrifies  me  at  times,"  murmured  Amelia,  "to 
think  of  the  awful  power  that  we  place  so  carelessly 
in  the  hands  of  cooks." 

"In  that  case,  my  dear,  it  might  be  quite  a  safe- 
guard always  to  have  a  boarder  at  the  table,"  sug- 
gested Beverly,  with  his  undaunted  optimism. 

"But  surely,  Amelia,"  laughed  Emily,  "you  can't 
suppose  that  after  she  has  lived  in  the  family  for 
seventy  years,  Aunt  Mehitable  would  yield  at  last  to 
a  passing  temptation  to  destroy  us?" 

"I  imagine  the  poor  boarder  suspected  nothing 
while  he  ate  his  soup,"  returned  Mrs.  Brooke.  "No, 
I  repeat  that  in  cases  like  that  no  one  is  safe,  and  the 
only  sensible  attitude  is  to  be  prepared  for  anything." 

"Well,  if  I'm  to  be  poisoned,  I  think  I'd  prefer  to 
take  it  Without  prep ar ation , "  re j  oined  Emily .  ' '  There 
is  Mr.  Smith  now  in  the  hall,  so  we  may  as  Well  send 
Malviny  to  bring  in  breakfast." 

When  Ordway  entered  an  instant  later  with  his 
hearty  greeting,  even  Mrs.  Brooke  unbent  a  trifle 
from  her  rigid  melancholy  and  joined  affably  in  the 
conversation.  By  a  curious  emotional  paradox  she 
Was  able  to  enjoy  him  only  as  an  affliction;  and  his 


i88  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

presence  in  the  house  had  served  as  an  excuse  for 
a  continuous  parade  of  martyrdom.  From  the  hour 
of  his  arrival,  she  had  been  perfectly  convinced  not 
only  that  he  interfered  with  her  customary  peace  of 
mind,  but  that  he  prevented  her  as  surely  from 
receiving  her  supply  of  hot  "water  upon  rising  and  her 
ordinary  amount  of  food  at  dinner. 

But  as  the  days  Went  by  he  fell  so  easily  into  his 
place  in  the  family  circle  that  they  forgot  at  last  to 
remark  either  his  presence  or  his  personal  peculiarities. 
After  dinner  he  would  play  his  game  of  dominoes  with 
Beverly  in  the  breezy  hall,  until  the  sunlight  began 
to  slant  across  the  cedars,  when  he  would  go  out  into 
the  garden  and  weed  the  overgrown  rows.  Emily  had 
seen  him  but  seldom  alone  during  the  first  few  weeks 
of  his  stay,  though  she  had  found  a  peculiar  pleasure 
in  rendering  him  the  small  domestic  services  of  which 
he  was  quite  unconscious.  How  should  he  imagine 
that  it  Was  her  hand  that  arranged  the  flowers  upon 
his  bureau,  that  placed  his  favourite  chair  near  the 
window,  and  that  smoothed  the  old-fashioned  dimity 
coverlet  upon  his  bed.  Still  less  would  he  have 
suspected  that  the  elaborate  rag  carpet  upon  his 
floor  was  one  which  she  had  contributed  to  his  com- 
fort from  her  own  room.  Had  he  known  these  things 
he  would  probably  have  been  melancholy  enough 
to  have  proved  congenial  company  even  to  Mrs. 
Brooke,  though,  in  reality,  there  was,  perhaps, 
nothing  he  could  have  offered  Emily  which  would 
have  exceeded  the  pleasure  she  now  found  in  these 
simple  services.  Ignorant  as  she  was  in  ail  worldly 


A  LAUGH  DOES  NOT  HEAL  189 

matters,  in  grasping  this  essential  truth,  she  had 
stumbled  unawares  upon  the  pure  philosophy  of 
love — whose  satisfaction  lies,  after  all,  not  in  posses- 
sion, but  in  surrender. 

She  was  still  absorbed  in  the  wonder  of  this  dis- 
covery, when  going  out  into  the  garden  one  afternoon 
to  gather  tomatoes  for  a  salad,  she  found  him  Working 
among  the  tall,  green  corn  at  the  end  of  the  long 
Walk.  As  he  turned  toward  her  in  the  late  sunshine, 
which  slanted  across  the  waving  yellow  tassels,  she 
noticed  that  there  was  the  same  eager,  youthful  look 
in  his  face  that  she  had  seen  on  the  night  when  she 
had  come  down  to  find  him  spading  by  the  moon- 
beams. 

In  response  to  her  smile  he  came  out  from  among 
the  corn,  and  went  with  her  down  the  narrow  space 
which  separated  two  overgrown  hills  of  tomato 
plants.  He  wore  no  coat  and  his  striped  cotton 
shirt  was  open  at  the  throat  and  wrists. 

"It's  delicious  in  the  corn  now,"  he  said;  "I  can 
almost  fancy  that  I  hear  the  light  rustle  along  the 
leaves." 

"You  love  the  country  so  much  that  you  ought 
to  have  been  a  farmer/'  she  returned,  "then  you 
might  have  raised  tobacco." 

"That  reminds  me  that  I  worked  yesterday  in 
your  brother's  crop — but  it's  too  sticky  for  me.  I 
like  the  garden  better." 

"Then  you  ought  to  have  a  garden  of  your  own. 
Is  all  your  chopping  and  your  digging  merely  for  the 
promotion  of  the  general  good?" 


THE  ANCIENT  LAW 


"Isn't  it  better  so?"  he  asked,  smiling,  "partic- 
ularly when  I  share  in  the  results  as  I  shall  in  this 
case  ?  Who  knows  but  that  I  shall  eat  this  wonderful 
tomato  to-night  at  supper?" 

She  took  it  from  his  hand  and  placed  it  on  the 
lettuce  leaves  in  the  bottom  of  the  basket  upon  her 


"You  make  a  careful  choice,  I  see,"  she  observed, 
"it  is  a  particularly  fine  one." 

"I  suppose  your  philosophy  would  insist  that  after 
plucking  it  I  should  demand  the  eating  of  it  also?" 

"I  don't  know  about  my  philosophy  —  I  haven't 
any  —  but  my  common  sense  would." 

"I'm  not  sure,"  he  returned  half  seriously,  "that 
I  have  much  opinion  of  common  sense." 

"But  you  would  have,"  she  commented  gravely, 
"if  you  had  happened  to  be  born  with  Beverly  for  a 
brother.  I  used  to  think  that  all  men  were  alike," 
she  added,  "but  you  don't  remind  me  of  Beverly  in 
the  very  least." 

As  she  spoke  she  turned  her  face  slightly  toward 
him,  and  still  leaning  over  the  luxuriant  tomato 
row,  looked  up  at  him  joyously  with  her  sparkling 
eyes.  Her  breath  came  quickly  and  he  saw  her 
bosom  rise  and  fall  under  the  scant  bodice  of  her  blue 
cotton  gown.  Almost  unconsciously  he  had  drifted 
into  an  association  with  her  which  constituted  for 
him  the  principal  charm  of  his  summer  at  Cedar 
Hill. 

"On  the  other  hand  I've  discovered  many  points 
of  resemblance,"  he  retorted  in  his  whimsical  tone. 


A  LAUGH  DOES  NOT  HEAL  191 

"Well,  you're  both  easy  to  live  in  the  house  with, 
I  admit  that." 

"And  we're  both  perfectly  amiable  as  long  as 
everybody  agrees  with  us  and  nobody  crosses  us," 
he  added. 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  cross  you,"  she  said,  laughing, 
"but  then  why  should  I?  Isn't  it  very  pleasant 
as  it  is  now?" 

"Yes,  it  is  very  pleasant  as  it  is  now,"  he  repeated 
slowly. 

Turning  away  from  her  he  stood  looking  in  silence 
over  the  tall  corn  to  the  amber  light  that  fellbeyondthe 
clear  outline  of  a  distant  hill.  The  association  Was, 
as  she  had  just  said,  very  pleasant  in  his  thoughts, 
and  the  temptation  he  felt  now  Was  to  drift  on  with 
the  summer,  leaving  events  to  shape  themselves  as 
they  would  in  the  future.  What  harm,  he  demanded, 
could  come  of  any  relation  so  healthful,  so  simple 
as  this? 

"I  used  to  make  dolls  of  ears  of  corn  when  I  was 
little,"  said  Emily,  laughing;  "they  were  Ihe  only 
ones  I  had  except  those  Beverly  carved  for  me  out 
of  hickory  nuts.  The  one  with  yellow  tassels  I  named 
Princess  Goldylocks  until  she  began  to  turn  brown 
and  then  I  called  her  Princess  Fadeaway." 

At  her  voice,  which  sounded  as  girlish  in  his 
imagination  as  the  voice  of  Alice  when  he  had  last 
heard  it,  he  started  and  looked  quickly  back  from 
the  sunset  into  her  face. 

"Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,"  he  asked,  "how 
little — how  very  little  you  know  of  me?  By  you  I 


i92  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

mean  all  of  you,  especially  your  brother  and  Mrs. 
Brooke." 

Her  glowing  face  questioned  him  for  a  moment. 

"But  what  is  knowledge,"  she  demanded,  "if  it 
isn't  just  feeling,  after  all?" 

"I  wonder  why  under  heaven  you  took  me  in?" 
he  went  on,  leaving  her  words  unanswered. 

Had  Mrs.  Brooke  stood  in  Emily's  place,  she  Would 
probably  have  replied  quite  effectively,  "because 
the  grocer's  bill  had  come  for  the  fifth  time";  but  the 
girl  had  learned  to  Wear  her  sincerity  in  a  less  con- 
spicuous fashion,  so  she  responded  to  his  question 
merely  by  a  polite  evasion. 

"We  have  certainly  had  no  cause  to  regret  it," 
Was  what  she  said. 

"What  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  in  the  beginning 
and  couldn't,  was  just  this,"  he  resumed,  choosing 
his  words  with  a  deliberation  which  sounded  strained 
and  unnatural,  "I  suppose  it  can't  make  any  differ- 
ence to  you — it  doesn't  really  concern  you,  of  course — 
that's  what  I  felt — but,"  he  hesitated  an  instant 
and  then  went  on  more  rapidly,  "my  daughter's 
birthday  is  to-day.  She  is  fifteen  years  old  and 
it  is  seven  years  since  I  saw  her." 

"Seven  years?"  repeated  Emily,  as  she  bent  over 
and  carefully  selected  a  ripe  tomato. 

"Doubtless  I  shouldn't  know  her  if  I  were  to  pass 
her  in  the  street,"  he  pursued,  after  a  minute.  "But 
it's  worse  than  that  and  it's  harder — for  it's  as  many 
years  since  I  saw  my  wife." 

She  had  not  lifted  her  head  from  the  basket,  and 


A  LAUGH  DOES  NOT  HEAL  193 

he  felt  suddenly  that  her  stillness  was  not  the  stillness 
of  flesh,  but  of  marble. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  told  you  all  this  be- 
fore," he  went  on  again,  "perhaps  it  wasn't  fair  to 
let  you  take  me  in  in  ignorance  of  this  and  of  much 
else?" 

Raising  her  head,  she  stood  looking  into  his  face 
With  her  kind,  brown  eyes. 

"But  how  could  these  things  possibly  affect  us?" 
she  asked,  smiling  slightly. 

"No,"  he  replied  slowly,  "they  didn't  affect  you, 
of  course — they  don't  now.  It  made  no  difference 
to  any  of  you,  I  thought.  How  could  it  make  any?" 

"No,  it  makes  no  difference  to  any  of  us,"  she 
repeated  quietly. 

"Then,  perhaps,  I've  been  wrong  in  telling  you 
teis  to-day?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  in  telling  me,  but,51 
she  drew  a  long  breath,  "it  might  be  as  well  not 
to  speak  of  it  to  Beverly  or  Amelia — at  least 
for  a  while." 

"You  mean  they  would  regret  their  kindness?" 

"It  would  make  them  uncomfortable — they  are 
very  old-fashioned  in  their  views.  I  don't  know  just 
how  to  put  it,  but  it  seems  to  them — oh,  a  terrible 
thing  for  a  husband  and  wife  to  live  apart." 

"Well,  I  shan't  speak  of  it,  of  course — but  Would 
it  not  be  better  for  me  to  return  immediately  to 
Tappahannock?" 

For  an  instant  she  hesitated.  "It  would  be  very 
dreadful  at  Mrs.  Twine's/' 


194  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"I  know  it,"  he  answered,  "but  I'm  ready  to  go 
back,  this  minute  if  you  should  prefer  it." 

"But  I  shouldn't,"  she  rejoined  in  her  energetic 
manner.  "Why  should  I,  indeed?  It  is  much  wiser 
for  you  to  stay  here  until  the  end  of  the  summer." 

When  she  had  finished  he  looked  at  her  a  moment 
without  replying.  The  light  had  grown  very  faint 
and  through  the  thin  mist  that  floated  up  from  the 
fields  her  features  appeared  drawn  and  pallid. 

"What  I  can't  make  you  understand  is  that  even 
though  it  is  all  my  fault — every  bit  my  fault  from  the 
beginning — yet  I  have  never  really  wanted  to  do 
evil  in  my  heart.  Though  I've  done  wrong,  I've 
always  wanted  to  do  right." 

If  she  heard  his  words  they  made  little  impression 
upon  her,  for  going  out  into  the  walk,  she  started, 
without  speaking,  in  the  direction  of  the  house.  Then, 
when  she  had  moved  a  few  steps  from  him,  she 
stopped  and  looked  back  as  if  she  had  forgotten 
something  that  had  been  in  her  thoughts. 

"I  meant  to  tell  you  that  I  hope — I  pray  it  will 
come  right  again,"  she  said. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  answered,  and  drew  back  into 
the  corn  so  that  she  might  go  on  alone. 

A  moment  later  as  Emily  walked  rapidly  down 
the  garden  path,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  distance 
between  the  gate  and  the  house  covered  an  immeasur- 
able space.  Her  one  hope  was  that  she  might  go 
to  her  room  for  at  least  the  single  hour  before 
supper,  and  that  there,  behind  a  locked  door  with 
her  head  buried  in  the  pillows,  she  might  shed 


A  LAUGH  DOES  NOT  HEAL  195 

the  hot  tears  which  she  felt  pressing  against  her 
eyelids. 

Entering  the  hall,  she  had  started  swiftly  up  the 
staircase,  with  the  basket  of  tomatoes  still  on  her 
arm,  when  Mrs.  Brooke  intercepted  her  by  descending 
like  a  phantom  from  the  darkened  bend. 

"O  Emily,  I've  been  looking  for  you  for  twenty 
minutes,1'  she  cried  in  despairing  tones.  "The 
biscuits  refused  to  rise  and  Aunt  Mehitable  is  in  a 
temper.  Will  you  run  straight  out  to  the  kitchen 
and  beat  up  a  few  quick  muffins  for  supper." 

Drawing  back  into  the  corner  of  the  staircase, 
Emily  glanced  down  upon  the  tomatoes  lying  in  the 
bottom  of  the  basket;  then  without  raising  her  eyes 
she  spoke  in  a  voice  which  might  have  uttered  appro- 
priately a  lament  upon  the  universal  tragedy  of  her 
sex. 

"I  suppose  I  may  as  well  make  them  plain?" 
she  said. 


CHAPTER  V 
TREATS  OF  A  GREAT  PASSION  IN  A  SIMPLE  SOUL 

FOR  several  weeks  in  August  Ordway  did  not  go 
into  Tappahamiock,  and  during  his  vacation  from 
the  warehouse  he  made  himself  useful  in  a  number 
of  small  ways  upon  the  farm.  The  lawn  was  trimmed, 
the  broken  fences  mended,  the  garden  kept  clear  of 
wiregrass,  and  even  Mrs.  Brooke's  "rockery"  of 
portulaca,  with  which  she  had  decorated  a  mouldering 
stump,  received  a  sufficient  share  of  his  attention 
to  cause  the  withered  plants  to  grow  green  again 
and  blossom  in  profusion.  When  the  long,  hot  days 
had  drawn  to  a  close,  he  would  go  out  with  a  watering- 
pot  and  sprinkle  the  beds  of  petunias  and  geraniums 
which  Emily  had  planted  in  the  bare  spots  beside 
the  steps. 

"The  truth  is  I  was  made  for  this  sort  of  thing, 
you  know,"  he  remarked  to  her  one  day.  "If  it  went 
on  forever  I  should  never  get  bored  or  tired.' 

Something  candid  and  boyish  in  his  tone  caused 
her  to  look  up  at  him  quickly  with  a  wondering  glance. 
Since  the  confession  of  his  marriage  her  manner  to 
him  had  changed  but  little,  yet  she  was  aware,  with 
a  strange  irritation  against  herself,  that  she  never 
heard  his  voice  or  met  his  eyes  without  remembering 
instantly  that  he  had  a  wife  whom  he  had  not  seen 

196 


A  GREAT  PASSION  IN  A  SIMPLE  SOUL   197 

for  seven  years.  The  mystery  of  the  estrangement 
was  as  great  to  her  as  it  had  ever  been,  for  since  that 
afternoon  in  the  garden  he  had  not  referred  again  to 
the  subject;  and  judging  the  marriage  relation  by 
the  social  code  of  Beverly  and  Amelia,  she  had 
surmised  that  some  tremendous  tragedy  had  been 
the  prelude  to  a  separation  of  so  many  years.  As  he 
lifted  the  watering-pot  he  had  turned  a  little  away 
from  her,  and  while  her  eyes  rested  upon  his  thick 
dark  hair,  powdered  heavily  with  gray  above  the 
temples,  and  upon  the  strong,  sunburnt  features  of 
his  profile,  she  asked  herself  in  perplexity  where  that 
other  woman  was  and  if  it  were  possible  that  she 
had  forsaken  him?  "I  wonder  what  she  is  like  and 
if  she  is  pretty  or  plain?"  she  thought.  "I  almost 
hope  she  isn't  pretty,  and  yet  it's  horrid  of  me  and 
I  wonder  why  I  hope  so?  What  can  it  matter  since 
he  hasn't  seen  her  for  seven  years,  and  if  he  ever  sees 
her  again,  she  will  probably  be  no  longer  young.  I 
suppose  he  isn't  young,  and  yet  I've  never  thought 
so  before  and  somehow  it  doesn't  seem  to  matter. 
No,  I'm  sure  his  wife  is  beautiful,"  she  reflected  a 
moment  later,  as  a  punishment  for  her  uncharitable 
beginning,  "and  she  has  fair  hair,  I  hope,  and  a 
lovely  white  skin  and  hands  that  are  always  soft 
and  delicate.  Yes,  that  is  how  it  is  and  I  am  very 
glad,"  she  concluded  resolutely.  And  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  could  see  distinctly  this  woman  whom 
she  had  imagined  and  brought  to  life. 

"I  can't  help  believing  that  you  would  tire  of  it 
in  time,"  she  said  presently  aloud. 


198  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Do  you  tire  of  it?"  he  asked  in  a  softened  voice, 
turning  his  gaze  upon  her. 

"I?"  she  laughed,  with  a  bitterness  he  had  never 
heard  in  her  tone  before,  "oh,  yes,  but  I  suppose  that 
doesn't  count  in  the  long  run.  Did  there  ever  live 
a  woman  who  hasn't  felt  at  times  like  railing  against 
the  milk  pans  and  denying  the  eternal  necessity  of 
ham  and  eggs?" 

Though  she  spoke  quite  seriously  the  simplicity 
of  her  generalisation  brought  a  humorous  light  to  his 
eyes;  and  in  his  imagination  he  saw  Lydia  standing 
upon  the  white  bearskin  rug  against  the  oval  mirror 
and  the  gold-topped  bottles  upon  her  dressing-table. 

"Well,  if  I'd  made  as  shining  a  success  at  my  job 
as  you  have  at  yourc,  I  think  I'd  be  content,"  was 
all  he  said. 

She  laughed  merrily,  and  he  saw  that  the  natural 
sweetness  of  her  temper  was  proof  against  idle  imagin- 
ings or  vain  desires. 

"You  think  then  that  it  is  better  to  do  a  small 
thing  well  than  a  big  thing  badly?"  she  inquired. 

"But  it  isn't  a  small  thing,"  he  protested,  "it's 
a  great  big  thing — it's  the  very  biggest  thing  of  all." 

A  provoking  smile  quivered  on  her  lips,  and  he 
saw  the  dimple  come  and  go  in  her  cheek. 

"I  am  glad  at  least  that  you  like  my  ham  and 
eggs,"  she  retorted  mockingly. 

"I  do,"  he  answered  gravely,  "I  like  your  ham 
and  eggs,  but  I  admire  your  courage,  also." 

She  shook  her  head.  "It's  the  cheapest  of  the 
virtues." 


A  GREAT  PASSION  IN  A  SIMPLE  SOUL   199 

"Not  your  kind,  my  dear  child — it's  the  rarest 
and  the  costliest  of  achievements." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  how  serious  you  are,"  she 
answered  lightly,  "but  it's  a  little  like  putting  a  man 
on  a  desert  island  and  saying,  'make  your  bed  or  lie 
on  the  rocks.'  He's  pretty  apt  to  make  his  bed, 
isn't  he?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  He  usually  puts  up  a  flag  of 
distress  and  then  sits  down  in  the  sand  and  looks  out 
for  a  ship." 

Her  voice  lost  its  merriment.  "When  my  ship 
shows  on  the  horizon,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  hoist 
my  flag." 

A  reply  was  on  his  lips,  but  before  he  could  utter 
it,  she  had  turned  away  and  was  moving  rapidly 
across  the  lawn  to  the  house. 

The  next  morning  Ordway  went  into  Tappahan- 
nock,  not  so  much  on  account  of  the  little  business  he 
found  awaiting  him  at  the  warehouse,  as  urged  by  the 
necessity  of  supplying  Beverly  with  cigars.  To 
furnish  Beverly  three  times  a  day  with  the  kind  of 
cigar  he  considered  it  "worth  while  for  a  gentleman  to 
smoke" — even  though  his  choice  fell,  in  Ordway 's 
opinion,  upon  a  quite  inferior  brand — had  become 
in  the  end  a  courtesy  too  extravagant  for  him  to 
contemplate  with  serenity.  Yet  he  knew  that 
almost  in  spite  of  himself  this  tribute  to  Beverly  was 
now  an  established  fact,  and  that  as  long  as  he 
remained  at  Cedar  Hill  he  would  continue  to  supply 
with  eagerness  the  smoke  which  Beverly  would 
accept  with  affability. 


200  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

The  town  was  dull  enough  at  mid  August,  he 
remembered  from  the  blighting  experience  of  last 
summer;  and  now,  after  a  fierce  drought  which  had 
swept  the  country,  he  saw  the  big,  fan-shaped  leaves 
on  Mrs.  Twine's  evening  glory  hanging  like  dusty 
rags  along  the  tin  roof  of  the  porch.  Banks  was 
away,  Baxter  was  away,  and  the  only  acquaintance 
he  greeted  was  Bill  Twine,  sitting  half  drunk,  in  his 
shirt  sleeves  and  collarless,  on  the  front  steps.  There 
was  positive  relief  when,  at  the  end  of  an  hour,  he 
retraced  his  steps,  with  Beverly's  cigars  under  his 
right  arm. 

After  this  the  summer  declined  slowly  into  autumn, 
and  Ordway  began  to  count  the  long  golden  after- 
noons as  they  dropped  one  by  one  into  his  memory 
of  Cedar  Hill.  An  appeal  to  Mrs.  Brooke,  whom  he 
had  quite  wen  over  by  his  attentions  to  Beverly  and 
the  children,  delayed  his  moving  back  into  Tappahan- 
nock  until  the  beginning  of  November,  and  he  told 
himself  with  satisfaction  that  it  would  be  possible 
to  awake  on  frosty  October  mornings  and  look 
out  upon  the  red  and  gold  of  the  landscape. 

Late  in  September  Banks  returned  from  his  vaca- 
tion, and  during  his  first  visit  to  Cedar  Hill,  he 
showed  himself  painfully  nervous  and  ill  at  ease. 
But  coming  out  for  a  walk  with  Ordway  one  after- 
noon, he  suggested  at  the  end  of  their  first  mile  that 
they  should  sit  down  and  have  a  smoke  beneath  a 
young  cherry  tree  upon  the  roadside.  As  he  lit  his 
pipe  he  held  the  match  in  his  hand  until  it  burned 
his  fingers ;  then  throwing  it  into  the  grass,  he  turned 


A  GREAT  PASSION  IN  A  SIMPLE  SOUL  201 

upon  his  companion  as  eloquently  despairing  a  look 
as  it  is  in  the  power  of  a  set  of  naturally  cheerful 
features  to  assume. 

"Smith,"  he  asked  in  a  hollow  voice,  "do  you  sup- 
pose it's  really  any  worse  to  die  by  your  own  hand 
than  by  disease?" 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  Ordway,  and  the  moment 
afterward,  "Come,  now,  out  with  it,  Banks.  How 
has  she  been  behaving  this  time?" 

Banks  lowered  his  voice,  while  he  glanced  sus- 
piciously up  at  the  branches  of  the  cherry  tree  be- 
neath which  they  sat. 

"She  hates  the  sight  of  me."  he  answered,  with  a 
groan. 

"Nonsense,"  rejoined  Ordway,  cheerfully.  "Love 
has  before  now  worn  the  mask  of  scorn." 

"But  it  hasn't  worn  the  mask  of  boredom," 
retorted  the  despairing  Banks. 

For  a  minnte  his  answer  appeared  final  even  to 
Ordway,  who  stared  blankly  over  the  ripened  corn- 
field across  the  road,  without,  for  the  life  of  him, 
being  able  to  frame  a  single  encouraging  sentence  in 
reply. 

"If  it's  the  last  word  I  speak,"  pursued  Banks, 
biting  desperately  at  the  stem  of  his  pipe,.  "  she  cannot 
abide  the  sight  of  me," 

"But  how  does  she  show  it?"  demanded  Ordway, 
relieved  that  he  was  not  expected  to  combat  the 
former  irrefutable  statement. 

"  She  tried  to  keep  me  away  from  the  springs  where 
she  went,  and  when  I  would  follow  her,  whether  or 


202  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

no,  she  hardly  opened  her  mouth  to  me  for  the  first 
two  days.  Then  if  I  asked  her  to  go  to  walk  she 
would  say  it  was  too  hot  for  walking,  and  if  I  asked 
her  to  drive  she'd  answer  that  she  didn't  drive  with 
men.  As  if  she  and  I  hadn't  been  together  in  a 
dog-cart  over  every  road  within  twenty  miles  of 
Tappahannock! " 

"But  perhaps  the  custom  of  the  place  was 
different?" 

"No,  sir,  it  was  not  custom  that  kept  her,"  replied 
Banks,  in  a  bitterness  that  scorned  deception,  "for 
she  went  with  others.  It  was  the  same  thing  about 
dancing,  too,  for  if  I  asked  her  to  dance,  she  would 
always  declare  that  she  didn't  have  the  strength  to 
use  her  fan,  and  the  minute  after  I  went  away,  I'd 
see  her  floating  round  the  ball-room  in  somebody 
else's  arms.  Once  I  did  get  her  to  start,  but  she 
left  off  after  the  first  round,  because,  she  said,  we 
could  not  keep  in  step.  And  yet  I'd  kept  in  step  with 
her  ever  since  we  went  on  roller  skates  together." 

He  broke  off  for  an  instant,  knocked  the  cold 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  plucking  a  long  blade  of 
grass,  began  chewing  it  nervously  as  he  talked. 

"And  yet  if  you  could  only  have  seen  her  when  she 
came  down  to  the  ball-room  in  her  white  organdie 
and  blue  ribbons,'  he  exclaimed  presently,  in  an 
agony  of  recollection. 

"Well,  I'm  rather  glad  on  the  whole  that  I  didn't," 
rejoined  Ordway. 

"You'd  have  fallen  in  love  with  her  if  you  had — 
you  couldn't  have  helped  it." 


A  GREAT  PASSION  IN  A  SIMPLE  SOUL  203 

"Then,  thank  heaven,  I  escaped  the  test.  It's  a 
pretty  enough  pickle  as  it  is  now." 

"I  could  have  stood  it  all,"  said  Banks,  "if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  other  man.  She  might  have 
pulled  every  single  strand  of  my  hair  out  if  she'd 
wanted  to,  and  I'd  have  grit  my  teeth  and  pretended 
that  I  liked  it.  I  didn't  care  how  badly  she  treated 
me.  What  hurt  me  was  how  well  she  treated  the 
other  man." 

"Did  she  meet  him  for  the  first  time  last  sum- 
mer?" asked  Ordway. 

"Oh  no,  she's  known  him  ever  since  she  went 
North  in  the  spring — but  it's  worse  now  than  it's 
ever  been  and,  upon  my  word,  she  doesn't  seem  to 
have  eyes  or  ears  for  anybody  else." 

"So  you're  positive  she  means  to  marry  him?" 

"She  swears  she  doesn't — that  it's  only  fun,  you 
know.  But  in  my  heart  I  believe  it  is  as  good  as 
settled  between  them." 

"Well,  if  she's  made  up  her  mind  to  it,  I  don't, 
for  the  life  of  me,  see  how  you're  going  to  stop  her." 
returned  Ordway,  smiling. 

"  But  a  year  ago  she'd  made  up  her  mind  to  marry 
me,"  groaned  Banks. 

"  If  she's  as  variable  as  that,  my  dear  boy,  perhaps 
the  wind  will  blow  her  heart  back  to  you  again." 

"I  don't  believe  she's  got  one,"  rejoined  Banks, 
with  the  merciless  dissection  of  the  pure  passion; 
"I  sometimes  think  that  she  hasn't  any  more  heart 
than — than — I  don't  know  what." 

"In  that  case  I'd  drag  myself  together  and  let  her 


204  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

alone.  I'd  go  back  to  my  work  and  resolve  never  to 
give  her  another  thought." 

"Then,"  replied  Banks,  "you  might  have  all  the 
good  sense  that  there  is  in  the  business,  but  you 
wouldn't  be  in  love.  Now  I  love  her  for  what  she  is, 
and  I  don't  want  her  changed  even  if  it  would  make 
her  kinder.  When  she  used  to  be  sweet  I  thought 
sweetness  the  most  fascinating  thing  on  earth,  and 
now  that  she  bangs  me,  I've  come  to  think  that 
banging  is." 

"  I  begin  to  understand,"  remarked  Ordway,  laugh- 
ing, "why  you  are  not  what  might  be  called  a  suc- 
cessful lover." 

"It  isn't  because  I  don't  know  the  way,"  returned 
Banks  gloomily,  "it's  because  I  can't  practice  it 
even  after  I've  planned  it  out.  Don't  I  lie  awake 
at  night  making  up  all  sorts  of  speeches  I'm  going  to 
say  to  her  in  the  morning?  Ch,  I  can  be  indifferent 
enough  when  I'm  dressing  before  the  mirror — I've 
even  put  on  a  purple  cravat  because  she  hated  it, 
but  I've  always  taken  it  off  again  before  I  went  clown- 
stairs  to  breakfast.  Then  as  soon  as  I  lay  my  eyes 
upon  her,  I  feel  my  heart  begin  to  swell  as  if  it  would 
burst  out  of  my  waistcoat,  and  instead  of  the  flippant 
speeches  I've  planned,  I  crawl  and  whimper  just 
as  I  did  the  day  before." 

They  were  seated  under  a  cherry  tree  by  the  side 
of  the  road  which  led  to  Tappahannock,  and  as 
Banks  finished  his  confessions,  a  large,  dust  covered 
buggy  was  seen  approaching  them  from  the  direction 
of  the  town.  As  Ordway  recognised  Baxter  through 


A  GREAT  PASSION  IN  A  SIMPLE  SOUL  205 

the  cloud  of  dust  raised  by  the  wheels,  he  waved  his 
hat  with  a  shout  of  welcome,  and  a  minute  later  the 
buggy  reached  them  and  drew  up  in  the  patch  of 
briars  upon  the  roadside. 

"I  was  just  on  my  way  to  see  you,  Smith,"  said  Bax- 
ter, as  he  let  fall  the  reins  and  held  out  his  great  dirty 
hand,  "but  I'm  too  heavy  to  get  out,  and  if  I  once 
sat  down  on  the  ground,  I  reckon  it  would  take  more 
than  the  whole  of  Tappahannock  to  pull  me  up  again." 

"Well,  go  ahead  to  Cedar  Hill,"  suggested  Ordway, 
"  and  we'll  follow  you  at  a  brisk  walk." 

"No,  I  won't  do  that.  I  can  say  what  I  have  got 
to  say  right  here  over  the  wheel,  if  you'll  stand  awhile 
in  the  dust.  Major  Leary  was  in  to  see  me  again  this 
morning,  and  the  notion  he's  got  in  his  head  now  is 
that  you're  the  man  to  run  for  Mayor  of  Tappahan- 
nock." 

"I!"  exclaimed  Ordway,  drawing  back  slightly  as 
he  spoke.  "  He  forgets  that  I'm  out  of  the  question. 
I  refuse,  of  course." 

"Well,  you  see,  he  says  you're  the  only  man  we've 
got  strong  enough  to  defeat  Jasper  Trend — and  he's 
as  sure  as  shot  that  you'd  have  something  like  a 
clean  walk-over.  He's  already  drawn  up  a  big  red 
flag  with  'The  People's  Candidate:  Ten  Command- 
ment Smith,  'upon  it.  I  asked  him  why  he  wouldn't 
put  just  plain  'Daniel,'  but  he  said  that  little  Biblical 
smack  alone  was  worth  as  much  as  a  bushel  of  votes 
to  you.  If  you  drew  the  line  at  'Ten  Commandment ' 
he's  going  to  substitute  'Daniel-in-the-Lions'-Den 
Smith'  or  something  of  that  kind." 


206  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Tell  him  to  stop  it,"  broke  in  Ordway,  with  a 
smothered  anger  in  his  usually  quiet  voice,  "he's 
said  nothing  to  me  about  it,  and  I  decline  it  absolutely 
and  without  consideration!" 

"You  mean  you  won't  run?"  inquired  Baxter, 
in  astonishment. 

"I  mean  I  Won't  run — I  can't  run — put  it  any  way 
you  please/' 

"I  thought  you'd  put  your  whole  heart  and  soul 
into  defeating  Trend." 

"I  have,  but  not  that  way — Where's  Trenton 
whom  we've  been  talking  of  all  summer?" 

"He's  out  of  it — consumption,  the  doctor  says — 
anyway  he's  going  South." 

"Then  there's  but  one  other  man,"  said  Ordway, 
decisively,  "and  that's  Baxter." 

"Me?"  said  Baxter  softly,  "you  mean  me,  do 
you  say?"  His  chuckle  shook  the  buggy  until  it 
creaked  upon  its  rusty  wheels.  "I  can't,"  he  added, 
with  a  burst  of  humour,  "to  tell  the  truth  I'm 
afraid." 

"Afraid?"  repeated  Ordway,  "you're  afraid  of 
Jasper  Trend?" 

"No,"  said  Baxter,  "it  ain't  Jasper— it's  my  wife." 

He  winked  slowly  as  he  caught  Ordway 's  eyes, 
and  then  picking  up  the  reins,  made  a  movement  as 
if  to  turn  back  to  Tappahannock.  "  So  you're  dead 
sure  then  that  you  can't  be  talked  over?"  he  asked. 

MAs  sure  as  you  are,"  returned  Ordway  promptly; 
then  as  the  buggy  started  back  in  the  direction  from 
which  it  had  come,  he  went  over  to  Banks,  who  had 


A  GREAT  PASSION  IN  A  SIMPLE  SOUL   207 

risen  to  his  feet  and  was  leaning  heavily  against  the 
cherry  tree,  with  the  long  blade  of  grass  still  between 
his  teeth. 

"What  do  you  think  of  their  wanting  to  make  me 
Mayor,  Banks?"  he  inquired,  with  a  laugh. 

Banks  started  from  his  gloomy  reverie.  "Mayor!" 
he  exclaimed  almost  with  animation.  '*  Why,  they  Ve 
shown  jolly  good  sense,  that  's  what  I  think!" 

"Well,  you  needn't  begin  to  get  excited,"  re- 
sponded Ordway,  "for  I  didn't  accept,  and  you  won't 
have  to  quarrel  either  with  me  or  with  Jasper  Trend." 

"There  's  one  thing  you  may  be  sure  of."  said 
Banks  with  energy,  "and  that  is  that  I'd  quarrel 
with  Jasper  every  time." 

"In  spite  of  Milly?"  laughed  Ordway. 

"In  spite  of  Milly,"  repeated  Banks  in  an  awed 
but  determined  voice;  "she  may  manage  my  hair  and 
my  cravats  and  my  life  to  come,  but  I'll  be  darned  if 
she  's  going  to  manage  my  vote!" 

"All  the  same  I  'm  glad  you  can  honestly  stick  to 
Jasper,"  said  Ordway,  "he  counts  on  you  now, 
doesn't  he?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  returned  Banks,  without 
enthusiasm;  "at  any  rate,  I  think  he  'd  rather  she  *d 
marry  me  than  Brown." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  in  which  the  name 
brought  no  association  into  Ordway 's  consciousness. 
Then  in  a  single  flashing  instant  the  truth  leaped 
upon  him,  and  the  cornfields  across  the  road  surged 
up  to  meet  his  eyes  like  the  Waves  of  a  high  sea. 

"Than  whom?"  he  demanded  in  so  loud  a  tone 


208  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

that  Banks  fell  back  a  step  and  looked  at  him  with 
blinking  eyelids. 

"Than  many  whom?"  asked  Ordway  for  the 
second  time,  dropping  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper 
before  the  blank  surprise  in  the  other's  face. 

"  Oh,  his  name  's  Brown — Horatio  Brown — I 
thought  I  'd  told  you,"  answered  Banks,  and  he 
added  a  moment  later,  "you  've  met  him,  I  believe/' 

"Yes, "  said  Ordway,  with  an  effort,  "he  's  the  hand- 
some chap  who  came  here  last  June,  isn't  he?" 

"  Oh,  he  's  handsome  enough,"  admitted  Banks, 
and  he  groaned  out  presently.  "You  liked  him, 
didn't  you?" 

Ordway  smiled  slightly  as  he  met  the  desperation 
in  the  other's  look. 

"I  like  him,"  he  answered  quietly,  "as  much  as 
I  like  a  toad." 


CHAPTER  VI 
IN  WHICH  BAXTER  PLOTS 

WHEN  Baxter  reached  the  warehouse  the  following 
morning,  he  found  Major  Leary  pacing  restlessly 
back  and  forth  under  the  brick  archway,  with  the 
regular  military  step  at  which,  during  the  four  years' 
war,  he  had  marched  into  battle. 

"Come  in,  sir,  come  in  and  sit  down,"  said  Baxter, 
leading  the  way  into  his  office,  and  sweeping  a  pile 
of  newspapers  from  an  armchair  with  a  hospitable 
gesture. 

"Have  you  seen  Smith?  and  is  he  all  right?" 
were  the  Major's  first  words,  as  he  placed  his  hat 
upon  the  table  and  took  a  quick,  impatient  turn 
about  the  room  before  throwing  himself  into  the 
chair  which  the  other  had  emptied.  He  was  a  short, 
erect,  nervous  man,  with  a  fiery  face,  a  pair  of  small 
gray  eyes,  like  steel  points,  and  a  long  white  mous- 
tache, discoloured  where  it  overhung  his  mouth  by 
the  faint  yellow  stain  of  tobacco. 

"Oh,  I  Ve  see  him,"  answered  Baxter  in  a  soothing 
voice,  "but  he  Won't  run — there's  no  use  talking. 
He  's  dead  set  against  it." 

"Won't  run?"  cried  the  Major,  furiously.  "Non- 
sense, sir,  he  must  run.  There  's  no  help  for  it.  Did 
you  tell  him  that  we  'd  decided  that  he  should  run?" 

209 


210  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"I  told  him,"  returned  Baxter,  "but,  somehow, 
it  did  n't  look  as  if  he  were  impressed.  He  Was  so 
positive  that  he  would  not  even  let  me  put  in  a  word 
more  on  the  subject.  'Are  you  dead  sure,  Smith?' 
I  said,  and  he  answered,  'I  'm  as  dead  sure  as  you 
are  yourself,  Baxter.  '  " 

The  Major  crossed  his  knees  angrily,  stretched  him- 
self back  in  his  chair,  and  began  pulling  nervously 
at  the  ends  of  his  moustache. 

"  Well,  I  '11  have  to  see  him  myself,"  he  said  author- 
itatively. 

"You  may  see  him  as  much  as  you  please,"  re- 
plied Baxter,  with  a  soft,  offended  dignity,  "but  I  '11 
be  mightily  surprised,  sir,  if  you  get  him  to  change  his 
mind." 

"Well,  I  reckon  you're  right,  Bob,"  admitted  the 
other,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  "what  he  won't 
do  for  you,  it  isn  't  likely  that  he  '11  do  for  the  rest  of 
Tappahannock — but  the  fact  remains  that  somebody 
has  got  to  step  up  and  defeat  Jasper  Trend.  Now 
I  ask  you  pointblank — where  '11  you  get  your  man?" 

"The  Lord  knows!"  sighed  Baxter,  and  he  sucked 
hard  at  the  stem  of  his  pipe. 

"Then  I  tell  you  if  you  can't  make  Smith  come  out, 
it 's  your  duty  as  an  honest  citizen  to  run  yourself." 

Baxter  relapsed  into  a  depressed  silence,  in  the 
midst  of  which  his  thoughts  were  invaded  not  so 
much  by  the  political  necsssity  of  the  occasion  as  by 
the  small,  but  dominant  figure  of  his  wife.  The  big 
man,  who  had  feared  neither  shot  nor  bayonet,  trem- 
bled in  spirit  as  he  imagined  the  outraged  authority 


IN  WHICH  BAXTER  PLOTS  211 

that  could  express  itself  in  a  person  that  measured 
hardly  a  fraction  more  than  five  feet  from  her  shoes 
to  the  curling  gray  fringe  above  her  forehead.  He 
remembered  that  once  in  the  early  days  of  his  marriage, 
he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  seduced  by  the  promise 
of  political  honours,  and  that  for  a  whole  miserable 
month  he  had  gone  without  griddle  cakes  and  syrup 
for  his  breakfast.  "No — no,  I  could  never  tell 
Marthy,"  he  thought,  desperately,  still  seeing  in 
imagination  the  pretty,  indignant  face  of  Mrs. 
Baxter. 

"  It 's  your  duty  as  an  honest  citizen  to  run  yourself," 
repeated  the  Major,  rapping  the  arm  of  his  chair  to 
enforce  his  words. 

"I  can't,"  rejoined  Baxter,  hopelessly,  "I  can't 
sir,"  and  he  added  an  instant  afterward,  "you  see 
Women  have  got  the  idea  somehow,  that  politics 
ain't  exactly  moral." 

"Women!"  said  the  Major,  in  the  dry,  contemptu- 
ous tone  in  which  he  might  have  uttered  the  word, 
"Pshaw!" 

"I  don't  mean  just  'women,'  "  replied  Baxter, 
"I  mean  my  wife," 

"Oh!"  said  the  Major,  "you  mean  your  wife 
would  be  opposed  to  the  whole  thing?" 

"  She  would  n't  hear  of  it,  sir,  she  simply  would  n't 
hear  a  word  of  it." 

For  a  long  pause  the  Major  made  no  answer;  then 
rising  from  his  chair  he  began  pacing  with  his  military 
stride  up  and  down  the  floor  of  the  little  room.  At 
the  end  of  five  minutes  he  turned  upon  Baxter  with 


212  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

an  exclamation  of  triumph,  and  threw  himself  again 
into  the  armchair  beside  the  desk. 

"I  have  it,  Bob!"  he  said,  slapping  his  knee  until 
the  dust  flew  out  of  his  striped  trousers,  "I  knew  I  'd 
get  it  in  the  end  and  here  it  is.  The  very  thing,  on 
my  word,  sir,  I  've  discovered  the  very  thing." 

"Then  I'm  out  of  it,"  said  Baxter,  "an'  I'm 
mighty  glad  of  that." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  aren  't  out  of  it — not  just  yet,"  said 
the  Major,  "we  're  to  start  you  in,  Bob,  you  're  to 
start  in  as  a  candidate;  and  then  a  week  before  the 
nomination,  something  will  crop  up  to  make  you  fall 
out  of  the  race,  and  you  '11  turn  over  all  your  votes  to 
Smith.  It  would  be  too  late,  then,  for  him  to  back 
out — he  'd  simply  have  to  keep  in  to  save  the  day." 

In  spite  of  the  roar  of  delight  with  which  the 
Major  ended  his  speech,  Baxter  sat  unconvinced  and 
unmoved,  shaking  his  great  head  in  a  voiceless  pro- 
test against  the  plot. 

"It's  the  only  way,  I  tell  you,"  urged  the  Major, 
half  pleased,  half  angry.  "After  Smith  you  're  by 
long  odds  the  most  popular  man  in  Tappahannock, 
and  if  it  is  n't  one  of  you,  it 's  Jasper  Trend  and  his 
everlasting  barrooms." 

"But  suppose  Smith  still  declines,"  said  Baxter, 
remembering  his  wife. 

"Oh,  he  won't — he  isn't  a  blamed  fool," returned 
the  Major,  "and  if  he  does,"  he  added  impressively, 
"  if  he  does  I  swear  to  you  I  '11  go  into  the  race  myself." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  Baxter  grasped  it  in 
token  of  good  faith. 


IN  WHICH  BAXTER  PLOTS  213 

"Then  I  '11  do  it,"  said  the  big  man,  "provided — " 
he  hesitated,  cleared  his  throat,  and  went  on  bravely, 
"provided  there's  no  objection  to  my  telling  my 
wife  the  scheme" — bending  his  ear  an  instant,  he 
drew  back  with  an  embarrassed  and  guilty  face, 
"that 's  Smith's  step  in  the  warehouse.  He  '11  be  in 
here  in  less  than  two  minutes." 

The  Major  took  up  his  hat,  and  flung  back  the  door 
with  a  hurried  movement. 

"Well,  good-bye,  I'll  see  Smith  later  about  the 
plans,"  he  returned,  "and  meanwhile,  we'll  go  hard 
to  work  to  whip  our  friend  Jasper." 

Meeting  Ordway  an  instant  later  upon  the  threshold, 
he  passed  him  with  a  flourish  of  his  hat,  and  marched 
rapidly  under  the  brick  archway  out  into  the  street. 

As  his  bookkeeper  entered  Baxter  appeared  to  be 
absorbed  in  a  newspaper  which  he  had  picked  up 
hastily  from  the  pile  upon  the  floor. 

"Good-mcrning,"  said  Ordway,  a  little  surprised; 
"it  looks  as  if  I  'd  put  the  fiery  Major  to  flight." 

"Smith,"  said  Baxter,  dropping  his  paper,  and 
lifting  his  big,  simple  face  to  the  younger  man,  "  Smith, 
you  've  got  me  into  a  hole,  and  I  want  you  to  pull 
me  out  again." 

"A  hole?"  repeated  Ordway;  then  as  light  broke 
on  him,  he  laughed  aloud  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"  Oh,  I  see,  he  's  going  to  make  you  Mayor  of  Tap- 
pahannock!" 

With  a  groan  Baxter  prodded  fresh  tobacco  into 
his  pipe,  and  applying  a  match,  sat  for  several  minutes 
brooding  in  silence  amid  the  cloud  of  smoke. 


214  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"He  says  it 's  got  to  be  either  you  or  me,"  he  pur- 
sued presently,  Vithout  noticing  Ordway's  ejacula- 
tion, "and  on  my  word,  Smith,  seeing  I've  got  a 
wife  who  ;s  all  against  it,  I  think  it  would  be  but  fair 
to  me  to  let  me  off.  You  're  my  friend  now,  ain't 
you?  Well,  I  'm  asking  you,  Smith,  as  friend  to 
friend." 

A  flush  passed  slowly  over  Ordway's  face,  and  the 
unusual  colour  lent  a  peculiar  animation  to  his  glance. 
As  Baxter  met  his  eyes,  he  was  conscious  that  they 
pierced  through  him,  bright  blue,  sparkling,  as 
incisive  as  a  blade. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  the  thing  is  all  but  impossible,  ^ 
said  Ordway,  after  a  long  pause.  "You  don't  know, 
I  suppose,  that  I  've  never  even  touched  politics  in 
Tappah  annock, ' ' 

"That  ain't  the  point,  Smith — it 's  going  on  three 
years  since  you  came  here — am  I  right?" 

"Yes — three  years  next  March,  and  it  seems  a 
century." 

"  Well,  airway,  you  've  as  good  a  right  as  I  to  be 
Mayor,  and  a  long  sight  better  one  than  Jasper  Trend 
has.  Come,  now,  Smith,  if  you  don't  get  me  out  of 
this  hole  I  'm  in,  heaven  knows  how  I  'm  going  to 
face  the  Major." 

"Give  me  time,"  said  Ordway,  quickly,  "give  me 
time — a  week  from  to-morrow 'I  am' to  make  my 
first  speech  in  the  town  hall.  May  I  have  till  then?  '* 

"Till  Thursday  week?  Oh,  I  say,  Smith,  you've 
got  to  give  in  in  the  end — and  a  week  sooner  or  later, 
what 's  the  difference?" 


IN  WHICH  BAXTER  PLOTS  215 

Without  replying,  Ordway  walked  slowly  to  the 
window  and  stood  looking  out  upon  the  steep  street 
that  crawled  up  from  the  railroad  track,  where  an 
engine  whistled.  He  had  held  out  till  now,  but  with 
Baxter's  last  words  he  had  heard  in  his  thoughts 
a  question  larger  and  older  than  any  of  which 
his  employer  had  dreamed.  "Why  not?"  he  asked 
himself  again  as  he  looked  out  upon  the  sunshine. 
"Why  should  not  Daniel  Smith,  for  a  good  pur- 
pose, resume  the  rights  which  Daniel  Ordway  has 
forfeited?"  And  it  appeared  to  him  while  he 
stood  there  that  his  decision  involved  not  himself 
alone,  and  that  the  outcome  had  ceased  to  be 
merely  an  election  to  the  highest  office  in 
Tappahannock.  Infinitely  deep  and  wide,  the 
problem  belonged  not  only  to  his  individual  life, 
but  to  the  lives  of  all  those  who  had  sinned  and  paid 
the  penalty  of  sin  and  asked  of  humanity  the  right 
and  the  freedom  to  begin  anew.  The  impulsive 
daring  which  he  had  almost  lived  down  stirred  for  an 
instant  in  his  pulses,  and  turning  quickly  he  looked 
at  Baxter  with  a  boyish  laugh. 

"  If  I  go  in,  Baxter,  I  go  in  to  win! "  he  cried. 

At  the  moment  it  had  seemed  to  him  that  he  was 
obliging  rather  than  ambitious  in  the  choice  that  he 
had  made ;  but  several  days  later,  when  he  came  out 
of  the  warehouse  to  find  the  Major's  red  flag  flying  in 
the  street,  he  felt  the  thrill  of  his  youthful  enthusiasm 
quicken  in  his  blood.  There  was  a  strangely  martial 
air  about  the  red  flag  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  response 
in  his  pulses  was  not  unlike  the  ardour  of  battle. 


216  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"After  all  the  world  is  no  smaller  here  than  it  is 
in  New  York,"  he  thought,  "only  the  littleness  of 
the  one  is  different  from  the  littleness  of  the  other. 
In  either  place  success  would  have  meant  nothing 
in  itself,  but  in  Tappahannock  I  can  be  more  that 
successful,  I  can  be  useful."  With  the  words  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  heart  dissolved  in  happiness, 
and  as  he  looked  now  on  the  people  who  passed  him 
in  the  street — on  the  old  Negro  midwife  waddling 
down  the  board  walk;  on  the  Italian  who  kept  a 
fruit  stand  at  the  corner;  on  the  pretty  girl  flirting 
in  the  door  of  the  harness  shop;  and  on  the  rough- 
coated,  soft-eyed  country  horses — he  felt  that  one 
and  all  of  these  must  recognise  and  respond  to  the 
goodwill  that  had  overflowed  his  thoughts.  So 
detached  from  personal  bitterness,  indeed,  was  even 
his  fight  against  Jasper  Trend  that  he  went  out  of 
his  way  at  the  top  of  the  hill  to  pick  up  a  small  whip 
which  the  Mayor  had  dropped  from  horseback  as  he 
rode  by.  The  scov/ling  thanks  with  which  Jasper 
receive^  the  courtesy  puzzled  him  for  a  moment 
until  he  remembered  that  by  the  man  in  the  harness 
shop  they  were  regarded  probably  as  enemies.  At 
the  recollection  he  stopped  short  in  his  walk  and 
laughed  aloud — no,  he  was  not  interested  in  fighting 
anything  so  small,  so  insignificant  as  Jasper  Trend. 
It  was  the  injustice,  the  social  disease  he  combated 
and  not  the  man.  "  I  wonder  if  he  really  hates  me? " 
he  thought,  for  it  seemed  to  him  absurd  and  mean- 
ingless that  one  man  should  waste  his  strength  in 
hating  another.  "If  he'd  been  five  years  in  prison 


IN  WHICH  BAXTER  PLOTS  217 

he  would  have  learned  how  foolish  it  all  is,"  he  added; 
and  an  instant  afterward  he  asked  himself  almost 
with  terror  if  his  punishment  had  been,  in  reality, 
the  greatest  good  that  had  come  to  him  in  life? 
Without  that  terrible  atonement  would  he  have  gone 
on  like  Jasper  Trend  from  fraud  to  fraud,  from  selfish- 
ness to  damnation? 

Looking  round  him  in  the  perfect  October  weather, 
he  felt  that  the  emotion  in  his  heart  swelled  suddenly 
to  rapture.  Straight  ahead  the  sunshine  sifted  in 
drops  through  the  red  and  yellow  trees  that  bordered 
the  roadside,  while  in  the  field  on  his  right  the 
brown  cornricks  crowded  in  even  rows  to  where  the 
arch  of  the  hill  was  outlined  against  the  deep  blue 
sky.  Here  was  not  only  peace,  but  happiness,  and 
his  old  life,  as  he  glanced  back  upon  it,  appeared 
hollow,  futile,  a  corpse  without  breath  or  animation. 
That  was  the  mere  outward  form  and  body  of  exist- 
ence; but  standing  here  in  the  deserted  road,  with 
his  eyes  on  the  brilliant  October  fields,  he  could 
tell  himself  that  he  had  come  at  last  into  the  ways 
and  the  understanding  of  faith.  As  he  had  once 
walked  by  sight  alone  and  stumbled,  so  he  moved 
now  blindly  like  a  child  that  is  led  step  by  step 
through  the  dark. 

From  the  road  behind  him  a  happy  laugh  struck 
on  his  ears,  and  turning  quickly  he  saw  that  a  dog- 
cart was  rolling  rapidly  from  Tappahannock.  As 
he  stepped  back  upon  the  roadside  to  avoid  the  dust 
raised  by  the  wheels,  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  face 
of  Milly  Trend,  who  sat,  flushed  and  smiling,  under 


218  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

a  pink  sunshade.  She  bowed  joyfully;  and  it  was 
not 'until  a  moment  afterward,  when  the  cart  had 
gone  by,  that  Ordway  realised,  almost  with  the  force 
of  a  blow  struck  unawares,  that  he  had  acknowledged 
the  obsequious  greeting  of  Gus  Wherry. 

After  the  pink  sunshade  had  vanished,  Milly's 
laugh  was  still  blown  back  to  him  on  the  rising 
wind.  With  the  happy  sound  of  it  in  his  ears,  he 
watched  the  dust  settle  again  in  the  road,  the  tall 
golden  poplars  close  like  a  screen  after  the  passing 
wheels,  and  the  distance  resume  its  aspect  of 
radiant  loneliness.  Nothing  was  changed  at  which 
he  looked,  yet  he  was  conscious  that  the  rapture  had 
passed  from  his  thoughts  and  the  beauty  from  the 
October  landscape.  The  release  that  he  had  won 
appeared  to  him  as  an  illusion  and  a  cheat,  and  lifting 
his  face  to  the  sunshine,  he  watched,  like  a  prisoner, 
the  flight  of  the  swallows  across  the  sky. 

At  dinner  Beverly  noticed  his  abstraction,  and 
recommended  a  mint  julep,  which  Emily  went  out 
immediately  to  prepare. 

"The  blood  is  easily  chilled  at  this  season,"  he 
said,  "and  care  should  be  taken  to  keep  it  warm 
by  means  of  a  gentle  stimulant.  I  am  not  a  great 
drinker,  sir,  as  you  may  have  remarked,  but  in  cases 
either  of  sickness  or  sorrow,  I  have  observed  that  few 
things  are  more  efficacious  than  a  thimbleful  of  whis- 
key taken  at  the  proper  time.  When  I  had  the 
misfortune  to  break  to  my  uncle  Colonel  Algernon 
Brooke  the  distressing  news  of  the  death  of  his  wife 
by  drowning,  I  remember  that,  though  he  was  one 


IN  WHICH  BAXTER  PLOTS  219 

of  the  most  abstemious  men  alive,  his  first  articulate 
words  were:  'bring  the  whiskey  jug.'  ' 

Even  with  the  cheering  assistance  of  the  mint 
julep,  however,  it  was  impossible  for  Ordway  to  eat 
his  dinner;  and  making  an  excuse  presently,  he  rose 
from  the  table  and  went  out  into  the  avenue,  where 
he  walked  slowly  up  and  down  in  the  shadow 
of  the  cedars.  At  the  end  of  his  last  restless  turn, 
he  went  indoors  for  his  hat,  and  coming  out  again 
started  rapidly  toward  Tappahannock.  With  his 
first  decisive  step  he  felt  that  the  larger  share  of  his 
burden  had  fallen  from  him. 


The  Tappahannock  Hotel  was  a  low,  whitewashed 
frame  building,  withdrawn  slightly  from  the  street, 
where  several  dejected  looking  horses,  with  saddle- 
bags attached  to  them,  were  usually  fastened  to  the 
iron  rings  in  the  hitching-rail  upon  the  sidewalk. 
The  place  was  the  resort  chiefly  of  commercial 
travellers  or  of  neighbouring  farmers,  who  drove  in 
with  wagon  loads  of  garden  produce  or  of  sun-cured 
tobacco;  and  the  number  of  loungers  reclining  on 
the  newly  painted  green  benches  upon  the  porch 
made  Ordway  aware  that  the  fall  trade  was  already 
beginning  to  show  signs  of  life. 

In  answer  to  his  questions,  the  proprietor  an 
unctuous  person,  whose  mouth  was  distorted  by  a 
professional  habit  of  welcome — informed  him  that 
a  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Brown  had  registered 
there  the  evening  before,  and  that  he  was,  to  the 


220  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

best  of  his  belief,  upstairs  in  number  eighteen  at  the 
present  moment. 

"To  tell  the  truth  I  can't  quite  size  him  up,"  he 
concluded  confidentially.  "He  don't  seem  to  hev* 
come  either  to  sell  or  to  buy  an'  thar  's  precious  little 
else  that  ever  brings  a  body  to  Tappahannock." 

"Please  add  that  I  wish  particularly  to  see  him  in 
private,"  said  Ordway. 

Without  turning  his  head  the  proprietor  beckoned , 
by  a  movement  of  his  thumb  delivered  backward  over 
his  left  shoulder,  to  a  Negro  boy,  who  sat  surrepti- 
tiously eating  peanuts  out  of  a  paper  bag  in  his  pocket. 

"Tell  the  gentleman  in  number  eighteen,  Sol,  that 
Mr.  Smith,  the  people's  candidate  for  Mayor,  would 
Jike  to  have  a  little  talk  with  him  in  private.  I  'm 
mighty  glad  to  see  you  out  in  the  race,  suh,"  he  added, 
turning  again  to  Ordway,  as  the  Negro  disappeared 
up  the  staircase. 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Ordway,  with  a  start,  which 
brought  him  back  from  his  approaching  interview 
with  Gus  Wherry  to  the  recollection  that  he  was 
fighting  to  become  the  Mayor  of  Tappahannock. 

"Thar's  obleeged  to  be  a  scrummage,  I  reckon," 
resumed  the  loquacious  little  man,  when  he  had 
received  Ordway 's  acknowledgments — "but  I  s'pose 
thar  ain't  any  doubt  as  to  who  '11  come  off  with 
the  scalps  in  the  end."  His  manner  changed 
abruptly,  and  he  looked  round  with  a  lurking 
curiosity  in  his  watery  eyes.  You  knew  Mr. 
Brown,  didn't  you  say,  suh? — before  you  came 
here?" 


IN  WHICH  BAXTER  PLOTS  221 

Ordway  glanced  up  quickly. 

"  Did  you  tell  me  he  got  here  yesterday  ? "  he  asked. 

"Last  night  on  the  eight-forty-five,  which  came  in 
two  hours  after  time." 

"An  accident  on  the  road,  wasn't  it?" 

"Wreck  of  a  freight — now,  Mr.  Brown,  as  I  was 
saying " 

At  this  instant,  to  Ordway's  relief,  the  messenger 
landed  with  a  bound  on  the  floor  of  the  hall,  and 
picking  himself  up,  announced  with  a  cheerful  grin, 
that  "the  gentleman  would  be  powerful  pleased  to 
see  Mr.  Smith  upstairs  in  his  room." 

Nodding  to  the  proprietor,  Ordway  followed  the 
Negro  up  to  the  first  landing,  and  knocked  at  a  half 
open  door  at  the  end  of  the  long,  dark  hall. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SHOWS  THAT  POLITENESS,  LIKE  CHARITY, 
Is  AN  ELASTIC  MANTLE 

WHEN  Ordway  entered  the  room,  he  turned  and 
closed  the  door  carefully  behind  him,  before  he  ad- 
vanced to  where  Wherry  stood  awaiting  him  with 
outstretched  hand. 

"I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how  I  appreciate  the 
honour,  Mr.  Smith.  I  didn't  expect  it — upon  my 
word,  I  didn't,"  exclaimed  Wherry,  with  the  effusive 
amiability  which  made  Ordway  bite  his  lip  in  anger. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  mean  it  for  an  honour,  but 
I  hope  we  can  get  straight  to  business,"  returned 
Ordway  shortly. 

"Ah,  then  there's  business?"  repeated  the  other, 
as  if  in  surprise.  "I  had  hoped  that  you  were  pay- 
ing me  merely  a  friendly  call.  To  tell  the  truth  I  've 
the  very  worst  head  in  the  world  for  business,  you 
know,  and  I  always  manage  to  dodge  it  whenever 
I  get  half  a  chance." 

"Well,  you  can't  dodge  it  this  time,  so  we  may  as 
\vell  have  it  out." 

"Then  since  you  insist  upon  that  awful  word 
'business,'  I  suppose  you  mean  that  you  've  come 
formally  to  ratify  the  treaty?"  asked  Wherry, 
smiling. 

222 


POLITENESS  IS  AN  ELASTIC  MANTLE  223 

"The  treaty?  I  made  no  treaty,"  returned  Ord- 
way  gravely. 

Laughing  pleasantly,  Wherry  invited  his  visitor 
to  be  seated.  Then  turning  away  for  an  instant, 
he  flung  himself  into  a  chair  beside  a  little  marble 
topped  table  upon  which  stood  a  half-emptied  bottle 
of  rye  whiskey  and  a  pitcher  of  iced  water  on  a 
metal  tray. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you've  forgotten  our 
conversation  in  that  beastly  road?"  he  demanded, 
"and  the  prodigal?  Surely  you  haven't  forgotten 
the  prodigal?  Why,  I  never  heard  anything  in  my 
life  that  impressed  me  more." 

"You  told  me  then  distinctly  that  you  had  no 
intention  of  remaining  in  Tappahannock." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  so  again  if  you  'd  like  to  hear  it.  Will 
you  have  a  drink?" 

Ordway  shook  his  head  with   an  angry  gesture. 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  he  insisted  bluntly, 
"is  why  you  are  here  at  all?" 

Wherry  poured  out  a  drink  of  whiskey,  and  adding 
a  dash  of  iced  water,  tossed  it  down  at  a  swallow. 

"I  thought  I  told  you  then,"  he  answered,  "that 
I  have  a  little  private  business  in  the  town.  As  it 's 
purely  personal  I  hope  you  '11  have  no  objection  to 
my  transacting  it. 

"You  said  that  afternoon  that  your  presence 
was,  in  some  way,  connected  with  Jasper  Trend's 
cotton  mills." 

Wherry  gave  a  low  whistle.  "Did  I?"  he  asked 
politely,  "well,  perhaps,  I  did.  I  can't  remember." 


224  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"I  was  fool  enough  to  believe  that  you  wanted  an 
honest  job,"  said  Ordway;  "it  did  not  enter  my 
head  that  your  designs  were  upon  Trend's  daughter." 

"Didn't  it?  "inquired  Wherry  with  a  smile  in 
which  his  white  teeth  flashed  brilliantly.  "Well, 
it  might  have,  for  I  was  honest  enough  about  it. 
Did  n't  I  tell  you  that  a  woman  was  at  the  bottom  of 
every  mess  I  was  ever  in?" 

"Where  is  your  wife?"  asked  Ordway. 

"Dead,"  replied  Wherry,  in  a  solemn  voice. 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken,  you  had  not  less  than 
three  at  the  time  of  your  trial." 

"All  dead,"  rejoined  Wherry  in  the  same  solemn 
tone,  while  he  drew  out  his  pocket  handkerchief  and 
wiped  his  eyes  with  a  flourish,  "there  ain't  many 
men  that  have  supported  such  a  treble  affliction  on 
the  same  day." 

"I  may  as  well  inform  you  that  I  don't  believe  a 
word  you  utter." 

"It 's  true  all  the  same.  I  '11  take  my  oath  on  the 
biggest  Bible  you  can  find  in  town." 

"Your  oath?     Pshaw!" 

"Well,  I  always  said  my  word  was  better,"  ob- 
served Wherry,  without  the  slightest  appearance  of 
offence.  He  wore  a  pink  shirt  which  set  off  his  fine 
colouring  to  advantage,  and  as  he  turned  aside  to 
pour  out  a  second  drink  of  whiskey,  Ordway  noticed 
that  gis  fair  hair  was  brushed  carefully  across  the 
bald  spot  in  the  centre  of  his  head. 

"Whether  they  are  dead  or  alive,"  responded  Ord- 
way, "I  want  you  to  understand  plainly  that  you  are 


POLITENESS  IS  AN  ELASTIC  MANTLE   225 

to  give  up  your  designs  upon  Milly  Trend  or  her 
money." 

"So  you've  had  your  eye  on  her  yourself?"  ex- 
claimed Wherry.  "I  declare  I  'm  deuced  sorry. 
Why,  in  thunder,  didn't  you  tell  me  so  last  June?" 

A  mental  nausea  that  Was  almost  like  a  physical 
spasm  seized  Ordway  suddenly,  and  crossing  to  the 
window,  he  stood  looking  through  the  half-closed 
shutters  down  into  the  street  below,  where  a  covered 
wagon  rolled  slowly  downhill,  the  driver  following 
on  foot  as  he  offered  a  bunch  of  fowls  to  the  shop- 
keepers upon  the  sidewalk.  Then  the  hot,  stale, 
tobacco  impregnated  air  came  up  to  his  nostrils, 
and  he  turned  away  with  a  sensation  of  disgust. 

"If  you  'd  only  warned  me  in  time — hang  it — I  'd 
have  cut  out  and  given  you  the  field,"  declared  Wherry 
in  such  apparent  sincerity  that  Ordway  resisted  an 
impulse  to  kick  him  out  into  the  hall.  "That 's  my 
way.  I  always  like  to  play  fair  and  square  when  I 
get  the  chance." 

"Well,  you  've  got  the  chance  now,  and  what  'smore 
you  Ve  got  to  make  it  good." 

"And  leave  you  the  open?" 

"And  leave  me  Tappahannock — yes." 

"I  don't  want  Tappahannock.  To  tell  the 
truth  I  'm  not  particularly  struck  by  its  attrac- 
tions." 

"In  that  case  you've  no  objection  to  leaving 
immediately,  I  suppose?" 

"I  've  no  objection  on  earth  if  you  '11  allow  me  a 
pretty  woman  to  keep  me  company.  I  'm  a  deuced 


226  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

lonely  bird,  and  I  can't  get  on  by  myself — it  *s  not  in 
my  nature." 

Ordway  placed  his  hand  upon  the  table  with  a 
force  which  started  the  glasses  rattling  on  the  metal 
tray. 

"I  repeat  for  the  last  time  that  you  are  to  leave 
Milly  Trend  alone,"  he  said.  "Do  you  understand 
me?" 

"I'm  not  sure  I  do,"  rejoined  Wherry,  still  pleas- 
antly enough.  "Would  you  mind  saying  that  over 
again  in  a  lower  tone?" 

"What  I  want  to  make  plain  is  that  you  are  not  to 
marry  Milly  Trend — or  any  other  women  in  this 
town,"  returned  Ordway  angrily. 

"  So  there  are  others! "  commented  Wherry  jauntily 
with  his  eye  on  the  ceiling. 

The  pose  of  his  handsome  head  was  so  remarkably 
effective,  that  Ordway  felt  his  rage  increased  by  the 
mere  external  advantages  of  the  man. 

"What  I  intend  you  to  do  is  to  leave  Tappahan- 
nock  for  good  and  all  this  very  evening,"  he  resumed, 
drawing  a  sharp  breath. 

The  words  appeared  to  afford  Wherry  unspeakable 
amusement. 

"I  can't,"  he  responded,  after  a  minute  in  which 
he  had  enjoyed  his  humour  to  the  full,  "the  train 
leaves  at  seven-ten  and  I  've  an  engagement  at  eight 
o'clock." 

"You  '11  break  it,  that 's  all." 

"  But  it  would  n't  be  polite— it  's  with  a  lady. " 

"Then  I  11  break  it  for  you,"  returned  Ordway, 


POLITENESS  IS  AN  ELASTIC  MANTLE   227 

starting  toward  the  door,  "for  I  may  presume,  I  sup- 
pose, that  the  lady  is  Miss  Trend?" 

"Oh,  come  back,  I  say.  Hang  it  all,  don't  get  into 
a  fury,"  protested  Wherry,  clutching  the  other  by  the 
arm,  and  closing  the  door  which  he  had  half  opened. 
"  Here,  hold  on  a  minute  and  let's  talk  things  over 
quietly.  I  told  you,  didn't  I?  that  I  wanted  to  be 
obliging." 

"Then  you  will  go?"  asked  Ordway,  in  a  milder 
tone. 

"Well,  I'll  think  about  it.  I've  a  quick  enough 
wit  for  little  things,  but  on  serious  matters  my  brain 
works  slowly.  In  the  first  place  now  didn't  we 
promise  each  other  that  we'd  play  fair?" 

"But  you  haven't — that's  why  I  came  here." 

"You're  dead  wrong.  I'm  doing  it  this  very 
minute.  I'll  keep  my  mouth  shut  about  you  till 
Judgment  Day  if  you'll  just  hold  off  and  not  pull  me 
back  when  I'm  trying  to  live  honest." 

"Honest!"  exclaimed  Ordway,  and  turned  on 
his  heel. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  call  it,  for  if  it 
isn't  honesty,  it  certainly  isn't  pleasure.  My  wife's 
dead,  I  swear  it's  a  fact,  and  I  swear  again  that  I 
don't  mean  the  girl  any  harm.  I  was  never  so 
much  gone  on  a  woman  in  my  life,  though  a 
number  of  'em  have  been  pretty  soft  on  me.  So 
you  keep  off  and  manage  your  election — or  what- 
ever it  is — while  I  go  about  my  business.  Great 
Scott!  after  all  it  ain't  as  if  a  woman  were  a  bank 
note,  is  it?" 


228  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"The  first  question  was  mine.  Will  you  leave  to- 
day or  will  you  not?" 

"And  if  I  will  not  what  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?" 

"As  soon  as  I  hear  your  decision,  I  shall  let  you 
know." 

"Well,  say  I  won't.  What  is  your  next  move 
then?" 

"  In  that  case  I  shall  go  straight  to  the  girl's  father 
after  I  leave  this  room." 

"By  Jove  you  will!  And  what  will  you  do  when 
you  get  there?" 

"I  shall  tell  him  that  to  the  best  of  my  belief  you 
have  a  wife — possibly  several — now  living." 

"Then  you'll  lie,"  said  Wherry,  dropping  for  the 
first  time  his  persuasive  tone. 

"That  remains  to  be  proved,"  rejoined  Ordway 
shortly.  "At  any  rate  if  he  needs  to  be  convinced 
I  shall  tell  him  as  much  as  I  know  about  you." 

"And  how  much,"  demanded  Wherry  insolently, 
"does  that  happen  to  be?" 

"  Enough  to  stop  the  marriage,  that  is  all  I  want. " 

"And  suppose  he  asks  you — as  he  probably  will — 
how  in  the  devil  it  came  to  be  any  business  of  yours? " 

For  a  moment  Ordway  looked  over  the  whiskey 
^bottle  and  through  the  open  window  into  the  street 
below. 

"I  don't  think  that  will  happen,"  he  answered 
slowly,  "but  if  it  does  I  shall  tell  him  the  whole  truth 
as  I  know  it — about  myself  as  well  as  about  you." 

"The  deuce  you  will!"  exclaimed  Wherry.     "It 


POLITENESS  IS  AN  ELASTIC  MANTLE  229 

appears  that  you  want  to  take  the  whole  job  out  of 
my  hands  now,  doesn't  it?" 

The  flush  from  the  whiskey  had  overspread  his 
face,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  general  redness  his  eyes 
and  teeth  flashed  brilliantly  in  an  angry  laugh.  An 
imaginative  sympathy  for  the  man  moved  Ordway 
almost  in  spite  of  himself,  and  he  wondered,  in  the 
long  pause,  what  Wherry's  early  life  had  been  and  if 
his  chance  in  the  world  were  really  a  fair  one  ? 

"I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  you,"  said  Ordway  at 
last;  "it's  out  of  the  question  that  you  should  have 
Milly  Trend,  bat  if  you'll  give  up  that  idea  and  go 
away  I'll  do  what  I  can  to  help  you — I'll  send  you 
half  my  salary  for  the  next  six  months  until  you 
are  able  to  find  a  job." 

Wherry  looked  at  him  with  a  deliberate  wink. 

"So  you'd  like  to  save  your  own  skin,  after  all, 
wouldn't  you?"  he  inquired. 

Taking  up  his  hat  from  the  table,  Ordway  turned 
toward  the  door  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  knob 
before  he  spoke. 

"  Is  it  decided  then  that  I  shall  go  to  Jasper  Trend? " 
he  asked. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you,"  said  Wherry, 
"but  that's  your  affair.  On  the  whole  I  think  that 
you'll  pay  more  than  your  share  of  the  price." 

"It's  natural,  I  suppose,  that  you  should  want 
your  revenge,"  returned  Ordway,  without  resentment, 
"but  all  the  same  I  shall  tell  him  as  little  as  possible 
about  your  past.  What  I  shall  say  is  that  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  your  wife  is  still  living." 


230  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"One  or  more?"  enquired  Wherry,  with  a  sneer. 

"One,  I  think,  will  prove  quite  sufficient  for  my 
purpose." 

"Well,  go  ahead,"  rejoined  Wherry,  angrily,  "but 
before  you  strike  you'd  better  be  pretty  sure  you  see  a 
snake  in  the  grass.  I'd  advise  you  for  your  own  sake 
to  ask  Milly  Trend  first  if  she  expects  to  marry  me." 

"What?"  cried  Ordway,  wheeling  round,  "do  you 
mean  she  has  refused  you?" 

"Oh,  ask  her — ask  her,"  retorted  Wherry  airily, 
as  he  turned  back  to  the  whiskey  bottle. 

In  the  street,  a  moment  later,  Ordway  passed  under 
the  red  flag,  which,  inflated  by  the  wind,  swelled 
triumphantly  above  his  head.  From  the  opposite 
sidewalk  a  man  spoke  to  him;  and  then,  turning, 
waved  his  slouch  hat  enthusiastically  toward  the 
flag.  "If  he  only  knew,"  thought  Ordway,  looking 
after  him;  and  the  words  brought  to  his  imagination 
what  disgrace  in  Tappahannock  would  mean  in  his 
life.  As  he  passed  the  dim  vacancy  of  the  warehouse 
he  threw  toward  it  a  look  which  was  almost  one  of 
entreaty.  "No,  no,  it  can't  be,"  he  insisted,  as  if  to 
reassure  himself,  "it  is  impossible.  How  could  it 
happen?"  And  seized  by  a  sudden  rage  against 
circumstances,  he  remembered  the  windy  afternoon 
upon  which  he  had  come  for  the  first  time  to  Tappa- 
hannock— the  wide  stretches  of  broomsedge;  the 
pale  red  road,  which  appeared  to  lead  nowhere;  his 
violent  hunger;  and  the  Negro  woman  who  had 
given  him  the  cornbread  at  the  door  of  her  cabin. 
A  hundred  years  seemed  to  have  passed  since  then — 


POLITENESS  IS  AN  ELASTIC  MANTLE   231 

no,  not  a  hundred  years  as  men  count  them,  but  a 
dissolution  and  a  resurrection.  It  was  as  if  his 
personality — his  whole  inner  structure  had  dissolved 
and  renewed  itself  again;  and  when  he  thought  now 
of  that  March  afternoon  it  was  with  the  visual  dis- 
tinctness that  belongs  to  an  observer  rather  than  to  an 
actor.  His  point  of  view  was  detached,  almost 
remote.  He  saw  himself  from  the  outside  alone — 
his  clothes,  his  face,  even  his  gestures;  and  these 
thinge  were  as  vivid  to  him  as  were  the  Negro  cabin, 
the  red  clay  road,  and  the  covered  wagon  that  threw 
its  shadow  on  the  path  as  it  crawled  by.  In  no  way 
could  he  associate  his  immediate  personality  either 
with  the  scene  or  with  the  man  who  had  sat  on  the 
pine  bench  ravenously  eating  the  coarse  food.  At 
the  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  released, 
not  only  from  any  spiritual  bondage  to  the  past,  but 
even  from  any  physical  connection  with  the  man  he 
had  been  then.  "  What  have  I  to  do  with  Gus  Wherry 
or  with  Daniel  Ordway?"  he  demanded.  "Above 
all,  what  in  heaven  have  I  to  do  with  Milly  Trend?" 
As  he  asked  the  question  he  flushed  with  resentment 
against  the  girl  for  whom  he  was  about  to  sacrifice 
all  that  he  valued  in  his  life.  He  thought  with 
disgust  of  her  vanity,  her  shallowness,  her  insincerity; 
and  the  course  that  he  had  planned  showed  in  this 
sudden  light  as  utterly  unreasonable.  It  struck  him 
on  the  instant  that  in  going  to  Wherry  he  had  been 
a  fool.  "Yes,  I  should  have  thought  of  that  before. 
I  have  been  too  hasty,  for  what,  after  all,  have  I  to 
do  with  Milly  Trend?" 


332  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

With  an  effort  he  put  the  question  aside,  and  in 
the  emotional  reaction  which  followed,  he  felt  that 
his  spirit  soared  into  the  blue  October  sky.  Emily, 
looking  at  him  at  dinner,  thought  that  she  had  never 
seen  him  so  animated,  so  light-hearted,  so  boyishly 
unreserved.  When  his  game  of  dominoes  with 
Beverly  was  over,  he  followed  the  children  out  into 
the  orchard,  where  they  were  gathering  apples  into 
great  straw  hampers;  and  as  he  stood  under  the 
fragrant  clustering  boughs,  with  the  childish  laughter 
in  his  ears,  he  felt  that  his  perplexities,  his  troubles, 
even  his  memories  had  dissolved  and  vanished  into 
air.  An  irresponsible  happiness  swelled  in  his  heart 
while  he  watched  the  golden  orchard  grass  blown 
like  a  fringe  upon  the  circular  outline  of  the  hill. 

But  when  night  fell  the  joy  of  the  sunshine  went 
from  him,  and  it  was  almost  with  a  feeling  of  heaviness 
that  he  lit  his  lamp  and  sat  down  in  the  chintz- 
covered  chair  under  the  faded  sampler  worked  by 
Margaret,  aged  nine.  Without  apparent  cause  or 
outward  disturbance  he  had  passed  from  the  exhilara- 
tion of  the  afternoon  into  a  pensive,  almost  a  mel- 
ancholy mood.  The  past,  which  had  been  so  remote 
for  several  hours,  had  leaped  suddenly  to  life  again — 
not  only  in  his  memory,  but  in  every  fibre  of  his  body 
as  well  as  in  every  breath  he  drew.  "No,  I  cannot 
escape  it,  for  is  it  not  a  part  of  me — it  is  I  myself," 
he  thought ;  and  he  knew  that  he  could  no  more  free 
himself  from  his  duty  to  Milly  Trend  than  he  could 
tear  the  knowledge  of  her  existence  from  his  brain. 
"After  all,  it  is  not  Milly  Trend,"  he  added,  "it 


POLITENESS  IS  AN  ELASTIC  MANTLE  233 

is  something  larger,  stronger,  far  more  vital  than 
she." 

A  big  white  moth  flew  in  from  the  dusk,  and  flut- 
tered blindly  in  the  circle  of  light  which  the  lamp 
threw  on  the  ceiling.  He  heard  the  soft  whirring 
of  its  wings  against  the  plaster,  and  gradually  the 
sound  entered  into  his  thoughts  and  became  a  part 
of  his  reflections.  "Will  the  moth  fall  into  the  flame 
or  will  it  escape?"  he  asked,  feeling  himself  powerless 
to  avert  the  creature's  fate.  In  some  strange  way 
his  own  destiny  seemed  to  be  whirling  dizzily  in  that 
narrow  circle  of  light ;  and  in  the  pitiless  illumination 
that  surrounded  it,  he  saw  not  only  all  that  was  passed, 
but  all  that  was  present  as  well  as  all  that  Was  yet  to 
come.  At  the  same  instant  he  saw  his  mother's  face 
as  she  lay  dead  with  her  look  of  joyous  surprise  frozen 
upon  her  lips;  and  the  face  of  Lydia  when  she  had 
lowered  a  black  veil  at  their  last  parting ;  and  the  face 
of  Alice,  his  daughter;  and  of  the  girl  downstairs 
as  he  had  seen  her  through  the  gray  twilight;  and 
the  face  of  the  epileptic  little  preacher,  who  had 
preached  in  the  prison  chapel.  And  as  these  faces 
looked  back  at  him  he  knew  that  the  illumination 
in  which  his  soul  had  struggled  so  blindly  was  the 
light  of  love.  "Yes,  it  is  love,"  he  thought  "and 
that  is  the  meaning  of  the  circle  of  light  into  which 
I  have  come  out  of  the  darkness." 

He  looked  up  startled,  for  the  white  moth,  after 
one  last  delirious  whirl  of  ecstasy,  had  dropped 
from  the  ceiling  into  the  flame  of  the  lamp. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  TURN  OP  THE  WHEEL 

AT  EIGHT  o'clock  the  next  morning  Ordway 
entered  Jasper  Trend's  gate,  and  passed  up  the 
gravelled  v/alk  between  borders  of  white  and  yellow 
chrysanthemums.  In  a  window  on  his  right  a  canary 
Was  singing  loudly  in  a  gilt  cage ;  and  a  moment  later, 
the  maid  invited  him  into  a  room  which  seemed,  as 
he  entered  it,  to  be  filled  with  a  jubilant  burst  of 
music.  As  he  waited  here  for  the  man  he  had  come 
to  see,  he  felt  that,  in  spite  of  his  terrible  purpose,  he 
had  found  no  place  in  Tappahannock  so  cheerful  as 
this  long  room  flooded  with  sunshine,  in  the  midst 
of  which  the  canary  swung  back  and  forth  in  his  wire 
cage.  The  furniture  was  crude  enough,  the  colours 
of  the  rugs  were  unharmonious,  the  imitation  lace  of 
the  curtains  Was  offensive  to  his  eyes.  Yet  the  room 
Was  made  almost  attractive  by  the  large  windows 
which  gave  on  the  piazza,  the  borders  of  chrysanthe- 
mums and  the  smoothly  shaven  plot  of  lawn. 

His  back  was  turned  toward  the  door  when  it 
opened  and  shut  quickly ,  and  Jasper  Trend  came  in, 
hastily  swallowing  his  last  mouthful  of  breakfast. 

"You  wanted  to  see  me,  Mr.  Smith,  I  understand," 
he  said  at  once,  showing  in  his  manner  a  mixture  of 
curiosity  and  resentment.  It  was  evident  at  the  first 

234 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL     235 

glance  that  even  in  his  own  house  he  was  unable  to 
overcome  the  political  antagonism  of  the  man  of 
little  stature.  The  smallest  social  amenity  he  would 
probably  have  regarded  as  a  kind  of  moral  subterfuge. 

"  I  must  ask  you  to  overlook  the  intimate  nature  of 
my  question,"  began  Ordway,  in  a  voice  which  was 
so  repressed  that  it  sounded  dull  and  lifeless,  "but 
I  have  heard  that  your  daughter  intends  to  marry 
Horatio  Brown.  Is  this  true?" 

At  the  words  Jasper,  who  had  prepared  himself  for 
a  political  onslaught,  fell  back  a  step  or  two  and 
stood  in  the  merciless  sunlight,  blinking  at  his  ques- 
tioner with  his  little,  watery,  pale  gray  eyes.  Each 
dull  red  vein  in  his  long  nose  became  suddenly 
prominent. 

"Horatio  Brown?"  he  repeated,  "why,  I  thought 
you'd  come  about  nothing  less  than  the  nomination. 
What  in  the  devil  do  you  want  anyway  with  Horatio 
Brown.  He  can't  vote  in  Tappahannock,  can  he? " 

"I'll  answer  that  in  time,"  replied  Ordway,  "my 
motive  is  more  serious  than  you  can  possibly  realise — • 
it  is  a  question  which  involves  your  daughter's 
happiness — perhaps  her  life." 

"Good  Lord,  is  that  so?"  exclaimed  Jasper,  "I 
don't  reckon  you're  sweet  on  her  yourself,  are  you?" 

Ordway 's  only  reply  was  an  impatient  groan  which 
sent  the  other  stumbling  back  against  a  jar  of  gold- 
fish on  the  centre  table.  Though  he  had  come  fully 
prepared  for  the  ultimate  sacrifice,  he  was  unable 
to  control  the  repulsion  aroused  in  him  by  the  bleared 
eyes  and  sunken  mouth  of  the  man  before  him. 


236  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Well,  if  you  ain't,"  resumed  Jasper  presently, 
with  a  fresh  outburst  of  hilarity,  "you're  about  the 
only  male  critter  in  Tappahannock  that  don't  turn 
his  eyes  sooner  or  later  toward  my  door." 

"Fve  barely  a  speaking  acquaintance  with  your 
daughter,"  returned  Ordway  shortly,  "but  her 
reputation  as  a  beauty  is  certainly  very  well  deserved." 

Mollified  by  the  compliment,  Jasper  unbent  so  far  as 
to  make  an  abrupt,  jerky  motion  in  the  direction  of  a 
chair;  but  shaking  his  head,  Ordway  put  again  bluntly 
the  question  he  had  asked  upon  the  other's  entrance. 

"Am  I  to  understand  seriously  that  she  means 
to  marry  Brown?"  he  demanded. 

Jasper  twisted  his  scraggy  neck  nervously  in  his 
loose  collar.  "Lord,  how  you  do  hear  things!"  he 
ejaculated.  "Now,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  thar  ain't 
a  single  word  of  truth  in  all  that  talk.  Just  between 
you  and  me  I  don't  believe  my  girl  has  had  her  mind 
on  that  fellow  Brown  more'n  a  minute.  I'm  dead 
against  it  and  that'll  go  a  long  way  with  her,  you  may 
be  sure.  Why,  only  this  morning  she  told  me  that  if 
she  had  to  choose  between  the  two  of  'em,  she'd  stick 
to  young  Banks  every  time." 

With  the  words  it  seemed  to  Ordway  that  the 
sunshine  became  fairly  dazzling  as  it  fell  through 
the  windows,  while  the  song  of  the  canary  went  up 
rapturously  like  a  paean.  Only  by  the  relief  which 
flooded  his  heart  like  warmth  could  he  measure 
the  extent  of  the  ruin  he  had  escaped.  Even  Jasper 
Trend's  face  appeared  no  longer  hideous  to  him,  and 
as  he  held  out  his  hand,  the  exhilaration  of  his  release 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL  237 

lent  a  note  that  was  almost  one  of  affection  to  his 
voice. 

"Don't  let  her  do  it — for  God's  sake  don't  let  her 
do  it,"  he  said,  and  an  instant  afterward  he  was 
out  on  the  gravelled  walk  between  the  borders  of 
white  and  yellow  chrysanthemums. 

At  the  gate  Milly  was  standing  with  a  letter  in  her 
hand,  and  when  he  spoke  to  her,  he  watched  her  face 
change  slowly  to  the  colour  of  a  flower.  Never  had 
she  appeared  softer,  prettier,  more  enticing  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  felt  for  the  first  time  an  understanding 
of  the  hopeless  subjection  of  Banks. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mr.  Smith!"  she  exclaimed,  smiling 
and  blushing  as  she  had  smiled  and  blushed  at  Wherry 
the  day  before,  "I  was  asking  Harry  Banks  yesterday 
wnat  had  become  of  you?" 

"What  had  become  of  me?"  he  repeated  in  sur- 
prise, while  he  drew  back  quickly  with  his  hand  on 
the  latch  of  the  gate. 

"I  hadn't  seen  you  for  so  long,"  she  answered, 
with  a  laugh  which  bore  less  relation  to  humour  than 
it  did  to  pleasure.  "You  used  to  pass  by  five  times 
a  day,  and  I  got  so  accustomed  to  you  that  I  really 
missed  you  when  you  went  away." 

"Well,  I've  been  in  the  country  all  summer,  though 
that  hardly  counts,  for  you  were  out  of  town  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  was  out  of  town  myself."  She  lingered 
over  the  words,  and  her  voice  softened  as  she  went  on 
until  it  seemed  to  flow  with  the  sweetness  of  liquid 
honey,  "but  even  when  I  am  here,  you  never  care 
to  see  me." 


238  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  asked  gaily,  and  the  next 
instant  he  wondered  why  the  question  had  passed  his 
lips  before  it  had  entered  into  his  thoughts,  "the 
truth  is  that  I  know  a  good  deal  more  about  you  than 
you  suspect/'  he  added;  "I  have  the  honour,  you  see, 
to  be  the  confidant  of  Harry  Banks." 

"Oh,  Harry  Banks!"  she  exclaimed  indifferently, 
as  she  turned  from  the  gate,  while  Ordway  opened 
it  and  passed  out  into  the  street. 

For  the  next  day  or  two  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
lightness  of  his  heart  was  reflected  in  the  faces  of 
those  about  him — that  Baxter,  Mrs.  Brooke,  Emily, 
Beverly  each  appeared  to  move  in  response  to  some 
hidden  spring  within  himself.  He  felt  no  longer 
either  Beverly's  tediousness  or  Mrs.  Brooke's  melan- 
choly, for  these  early  October  mornings  contained 
a  rapture  which  transfigured  the  people  with  whom 
he  lived. 

With  this  unlocked  for  renewal  of  hope  he  threw 
himself  eagerly  into  the  political  fight  for  the  control 
of  Tappanhannock.  It  was  now  Tuesday  and  on 
Thursday  evening  he  was  to  deliver  his  first  speech 
in  the  town  hall.  Already  the  preparations  were 
made,  already  the  flags  were  flying  from  the  galleries, 
and  already  Baxter  had  been  trimmed  for  his  public 
appearance  upon  the  platform. 

"By  George,  I  believe  the  Major's  right  and  it's 
the  Ten  Commandment  part  that  has  done  it,"  said 
the  big  man,  settling  his  person  with  a  shake  in  the 
new  clothes  he  had  purchased  for  the  occasion.  "I 
reckon  this  coat's  all  right,  Smith,  ain't  it?  My 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL  239 

wife  wouldn't  let  me  come  out  on  the  platform  in 
those  old  clothes  I've  been  wearing." 

"Oh,  you're  all  right,"  returned  Ordway,  cheer- 
fully— so  cheerfully  that  Baxter  was  struck  afresh 
by  the  peculiar  charm  which  belonged  less  to  manner 
than  to  temperament,  "you're  all  right,  old  man, 
but  it  isn't  your  clothes  that  make  you  so." 

"All  the  same  I'll  feel  better  when  I  get  into  my 
old  suit  again,"  said  Baxter,  "I  don't  know  how  it  is, 
but,  somehow,  I  seem  to  have  left  two-thirds  of 
myself  behind  in  those  old  clothes.  I  just  wore  these 
down  to  show  'em  off,  but  I  shan't  put  'em  on  again 
till  Thursday." 

It  was  the  closing  hour  at  the  warehouse,  and  after 
a  few  eager  words  on  the  subject  of  the  approaching 
meeting,  Ordway  left  the  office  and  went  out  into  the 
deserted  building  where  the  old  Negro  was  sweeping 
the  floor  with  his  twig  broom.  A  moment  later  he 
was  about  to  pass  under  the  archway,  when  a  man, 
hurrying  in  from  the  street,  ran  straight  into  his 
arms  and  then  staggered  back  with  a  laugh  of  mirth- 
less apology. 

"My  God,  Smith,"  said  the  tragic  voice  of  Banks, 
"I'm  half  crazy  and  I  must  have  a  word  with  you 
alone." 

Catching  his  arm  Ordway  drew  him  into  the  dim 
light  of  the  warehouse,  until  they  reached  the  shelter 
of  an  old  wagon  standing  unhitched  against  the  wall. 
The  only  sound  which  came  to  them  here  was  the 
scratching  noise  made  by  the  twig  broom  on  the 
rough  planks  of  the  floor. 


240  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Speak  now,"  said  Ordway.  while  his  heart  sank 
as  he  looked  into  the  other's  face,  "It's  quite  safe — 
there's  no  one  about  but  old  Abraham." 

"I  can't  speak,"  returned  Banks,  preserving  with 
an  effort  a  decent  composure  of  his  features,  "but 
it's  all  up  with  me — it's  worse  than  I  imagined,  and 
there's  nothing  ahead  of  me  but  death." 

"I  suppose  it's  small  consolation  to  be  told  that 
you  look  unusually  healthy  at  the  minute,"  replied 
Ordway,  "but  don't  keep  me  guessing,  Banks. 
What's  happened  now?" 

"All  her  indifference — all  her  pretence  of  flirting 
was  pure  deception,"  groaned  the  miserable  Banks, 
"she  wanted  to  throw  dust,  not  only  in  my  eyes, 
but  in  Jasper's,  also." 

"Why,  he  told  me  with  his  own  lips  that  his 
daughter  had  given  him  to  understand  that  she 
preferred  you  to  Brown." 

"And  so  she  did  give  him  to  understand — so  she 
did,"  affirmed  Banks,  in  despair,  "but  it  was  all  a 
blind  so  that  he  wouldn't  make  trouble  between  her 
and  Brown.  I  tell  you,  Smith,"  he  concluded,  bring- 
ing his  clenched  fist  down  on  the  wheel  of  the  wagon, 
from  which  a  shower  of  dried  mud  was  scattered  into 
Ordway's  face,  "I  tell  you,  I  don't  believe  women 
think  any  more  of  telling  a  lie  than  we  do  of  taking 
a  cocktail!" 

"But  how  do  you  know  all  this,  my  dear  fellow? 
and  when  did  you  discover  it?" 

"That's  the  awful  part,  I'm  coming  to  it."  His 
voice  gave  out  and  he  swallowed  a  lump  in  his  throat 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL  241 

before  he  could  go  on.  "Oh,  Smith,  Smith,  I  declare, 
if  it's  the  last  word  I  speak,  I  believe  she  means  ta 
run  away  with  Brown  this  very  evening!" 

"What?"  cried  Ordway,  hardly  raising  his  voice 
above  a  whisper.  A  burning  resentment,  almost  a  re- 
pulsion swept  over  him,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  have 
spurned  the  girl's  silly  beauty  if  she  had  lain  at  his  feet. 
What  was  a  woman  like  Milly  Trend  worth,  that  she 
should  cost  him,  a  stranger  to  her,  so  great  a  price? 

"Tell  me  all,"  he  said  sharply,  turning  again  to 
his  companion.  "How  did  you  hear  it?  Why  do 
you  believe  it?  Have  you  spoken  to  Jasper?" 

Banks  blinked  hard  for  a  minute,  while  a  single 
large  round  teardrop  trickled  slowly  down  his  freckled 
nose. 

"I  should  never  have  suspected  it,"  he  answered, 
"but  for  Milly 's  old  black  Mammy  Delphy,  who  has 
lived  with  her  ever  since  she  was  bom.  Aunt  Delphy 
came  upon  her  this  morning  when  she  was  packing 
her  bag,  and  by  hook  or  crook,  heaven  knows  how, 
she  managed  to  get  at  the  truth.  Then  she  came 
directly  to  me,  for  it  seems  that  she  hates  Brown 
worse  than  the  devil." 

"When  did  she  come  to  you?" 

"A  half  hour  ago.  I  left  her  and  rushed  straight 
to  you." 

Ordway  drew  out  his  watch,  and  stood  looking  at 
the  face  of  it  with  a  wondering  frown. 

"That  must  have  been  five  o'clock,"  he  said,  "and 
it  is  now  half  past.  Shall  I  catch  Milly,  do  you 
think,  if  I  start  at  once?" 


242  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"You?"  cried  Banks,  "you  mean  that  you  will 
stop  her?" 

"I  mean  that  I  must  stop  her.  There  is  no 
question." 

As  he  spoke  he  had  started  quickly  down  the 
warehouse,  scattering  as  he  walked,  a  pile  of  trash 
which  the  old  Negro  had  swept  together  in  the  centre 
of  the  floor.  So  rapid  were  the  long  strides  with 
which  he  moved  that  Banks,  in  spite  of  his  frantic 
haste,  could  barely  keep  in  step  with  him  as  they 
passed  into  the  street.  Ordway's  face  had  changed 
as  if  from  a  spasm  of  physical  pain,  and  as  Banks 
looked  at  it  in  the  afternoon  light  he  was  startled 
to  find  that  it  was  the  face  of  an  old  man.  The 
brows  were  bent,  the  mouth  drawn,  the  skin  sallow, 
and  the  gray  hair  upon  the  temples  had  become 
suddenly  more  prominent  than  the  dark  locks  above. 

"Then  you  knew  Brown  before?"  asked  Banks, 
with  an  accession  of  courage,  as  they  slackened  their 
pace  with  the  beginning  of  the  hilL 

"  I  knew  him  before — yes,"  replied  Ordway,  shortly. 
His  reserve  had  become  not  only  a  mask,  but  a  coffin, 
and  his  companion  had  for  a  minute  a  sensation  that 
was  almost  uncanny  as  he  walked  by  his  side — as  if 
he  were  striving  to  keep  pace  uphill  with  a  dead  man. 
Banks  had  known  him  to  be  silent,  gloomy,  uncom- 
municative before  now,  but  he  had  never  until  this 
instant  seen  that  look  of  iron  resolve  which  was  too 
cold  and  still  to  approach  the  heat  of  passion.  Had 
he  been  furious  Banks  might  have  shared  his  fury 
with  him;  had  he  shown  bitterness  of  mood  Banks 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL  243 

might  have  been  bitter  also;  had  he  given  way  even 
to  sardonic  merriment,  Banks  felt  that  it  would  have 
been  possible  to  have  feigned  a  mild  hilarity  of  manner ; 
but  before  this  swift,  implacable  pursuit  of  something 
he  could  not  comprehend,  the  wretched  lover  lost 
all  consciousness  of  the  part  which  he  himself 
must  act,  well  or  ill,  in  the  event  to  come. 

At  Trend's  gate  Ordway  stopped  and  looked  at  his 
companion  with  a  smile  which  appeared  to  throw 
an  artificial  light  upon  his  drawn  features. 

"Will  you  let  me  speak  to  her  alone  first,"  he  asked, 
"for  a  few  minutes?" 

"I'll  take  a  turn  up  the  street  then,"  returned 
Banks  eagerly,  still  panting  from  his  hurried  walk 
up  the  long  hill.  "She's  in  the  room  on  the  right 
now,"  he  added,  "  I  can  see  her  feeding  the  canary." 

Ordway  nodded  indifferently.  "I  shan't  be  long," 
he  said,  and  going  inside  the  gate,  passed  deliberately 
up  the  walk  and  into  the  room  where  Milly  stood  at 
the  window  with  her  mouth  close  against  the  wires 
of  the  gilt  cage. 

At  his  step  on  the  threshold  the  girl  turned  quickly 
toward  the  door  with  a  fluttering  movement.  Sur- 
prise and  disappointment  battled  for  an  instant  in 
her  glance,  and  he  gathered  from  his  first  look  that 
he  had  come  at  the  moment  when  she  was  expecting 
Wherry.  He  noticed,  too,  that  in  spite  of  the  mild 
autumn  weather,  she  wore  a  dark  dress  which  was  not 
unsuitable  for  a  long  journey,  and  that  her  sailor  hat, 
from  which  a  blue  veil  floated,  lay  on  a  chair  in  one 
corner.  A  deeper  meaning  had  entered  into  the 


244  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

shallow  prettiness  of  her  face,  and  he  felt  that  she 
had  passed  through  some  subtle  change  in  which  she 
had  left  her  girlhood  behind  her.  For  the  first  time 
it  occurred  to  him  that  Milly  Trend  was  deserving  not 
only  of  passion,  but  of  sympathy. 

At  the  withdrawal  of  the  lips  that  had  offered  him 
his  bit  of  cake,  the  canary  fluttered  from  his  perch 
and  uttered  a  sweet,  short,  questioning  note;  and  in 
Milly 's  face,  as  she  came  forward,  there  was  some- 
thing of  this  birdlike,  palpitating  entreaty. 

"  Oh,  it  is  you,  Mr.  Smith/'  she  said,  "  I  did  not  hear 
your  ring." 

"I  didn't  ring,"  responded  Ordway,  as  he  took  her 
trembling  outstretched  hand  in  which  she  still  held 
the  bit  of  sponge  cake,  "I  saw  you  at  the  window 
so  I  came  straight  in  without  sending  word.  What 
I  have  to  say  to  you  is  so  important  that  I  dared  not 
lose  a  minute." 

"And  it  is  about  me?"  asked  Milly,  with  a  quiver 
of  her  eyelids. 

"No,  it  is  about  someone  else,  though  it  concerns 
you  in  a  measure.  The  thing  I  have  to  tell  you 
relates  directly  to  a  man  whom  you  know  as  Horatio 
Brown " 

He  spoke  so  quickly  that  the  girl  divined  his  mean- 
ing from  his  face  rather  than  from  his  words. 

"Then  you  know  him?"  she  questioned,  in  a 
frightened  whisper. 

"  I  know  more  of  his  life  than  I  can  tell  you.  It  is 
sufficient  to  say  that  to  the  best  of  my  belief  he  has 
a  wife  now  living — that  he  has  been  married  before 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL  245 

this  under  different  names  to  at  least  two  living 
women " 

He  stopped  and  put  out  his  hand  with  an  impulsive 
protecting  gesture,  for  the  wounded  vanity  in  the 
girl's  face  had  pierced  to  his  heart.  "Will  you  lei: 
me  see  your  father?"  he  asked  gently,  "would  it  not 
be  better  for  me  to  speak  to  him  instead  of  to  you?  " 

"No,  no!"  cried  Milly  sharply,  "don't  tell  him— 
don't  dare  to  tell  him — for  he  would  believe  it  and  it 
is  a  lie — it  is  a  lie!  I  tell  you  it  is  a  lie! " 

"As  God  is  my  witness  it  is  the  truth,"  he  answered, 
without  resentment. 

"Then  you  shall  accuse  him  to  his  face.  He  is 
coming  in  a  little  while,  and  you  shall  accuse  him 
before  me " 

She  stopped  breathlessly  and  the  pity  in  his  look 
made  her  wince  sharply  and  shrink  away.  With  her 
movement  the  piece  of  sponge  cake  fell  from  her 
loosened  fingers  and  rolled  on  the  floor  at  her  feet. 

"But  if  it  were  true  how  could  you  know  it?"  she 
demanded.  "No,  it  is  not  true — I  don't  believe  it! 
I  don't  believe  it!"  she  repeated  ir*  a  passion  of 
terror. 

At  her  excited  voice  the  canary,  swinging  on  his 
perch,  broke  suddenly  into  an  ecstasy  of  song,  and 
Milly 's  words,  when  she  spoke  again,  were  drowned 
in  the  liquid  sweetness  that  flowed  from  the  cage. 
For  a  minute  Ordway  stood  in  silence  waiting  for 
the  music  to  end,  while  he  watched  the  angry,  helpless 
tremor  of  the  girl's  outstretched  hands. 

"Will  you  promise  me  to  wait?"  he  asked,  raising 


246  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

his  voice  in  the  effort  to  be  heard,  "will  you  promise 
me  to  wait  at  least  until  you  find  out  the  truth  or 
the  falsehood  of  what  I  tell  you? " 

"But  I  don't  believe  it,"  repeated  Milly  in  the 
stubborn  misery  of  hopeless  innocence. 

"Ask  yourself,  then,  what  possible  reason  I  could 
have  in  coming  to  you — except  to  save  you?" 

"Wait!"  cried  the  girl  angrily,  "I  can't  hear — 
wait!"  Picking  up  a  shawl  from  a  chair,  she  flung 
it  with  an  impatient  gesture  over  the  cage,  and  turn- 
ing immediately  from  the  extinguished  bird,  took  up 
his  sentence  where  he  had  broken  off. 

"To  save  me?"  she  repeated,  "you  mean  from 
marriage?" 

"From  a  marriage  that  would  be  no  marriage. 
Am  I  right  in  suspecting  that  you  meant  to  go  away 
With  him  to-night?" 

She  bowed  her  head — all  the  violent  spirit  gone 
out  of  her.  "I  was  ready  to  go  to-night,"  she 
answered,  like  a  child  that  has  been  hurt  and  is  still 
afraid  of  what  is  to  come. 

"And  you  promise  me  that  you  will  give  it  up?" 
he  went  on  gently. 

"I  don't  know — I  can't  tell — I  must  see  him  first," 
she  said,  and  burst  suddenly  into  tears,  hiding  her 
face  in  her  hands  with  a  pathetic,  shamed  gesture. 

Turning  away  for  a  moment,  he  stood  blankly 
staring  down  into  the  jar  of  goldfish.  Then,  as  her 
sobs  grew  presently  beyond  her  control,  he  came 
back  to  the  chair  into  which  she  had  dropped  and 
looked  with  moist  eyes  at  her  bowed  fair  head. 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL  247 

"Before  I  leave  you,  will  you  promise  me  to  give 
him  up? — to  forget  him  if  it  be  possible?"  he  asked. 

"But  it  is  not  possible,"  she  flashed  back,  lifting 
her  wet  blue  eyes  to  his.  "How  dare  you  come  to 
me  with  a  tale  like  this?  Oh,  I  hate  you!  I  shall 
always  hate  you !  Will  y ou  go  ? " 

Before  her  helpless  fury  he  felt  a  compassion, 
stronger  even  than  the  emotion  her  tears  had  aroused. 

"It  is  not  fair  that  I  should  tell  you  so  much  and 
not  tell  you  all,  Milly,"  he  said.  "It  is  not  fair  that 
in  accusing  the  man  you  love,  I  should  still  try  to 
shield  myself.  I  know  that  these  things  are  true 
because  Brown's — Wherry  is  his  name — trial  took 
place  immediately  before  mine — and  we  saw  each 
other  during  the  terms  which  we  served  in  prison." 

Then  before  she  could  move  or  speak  he  turned  from 
her  and  went  rapidly  from  the  house  and  out  into 
the  walk. 


CHAPTER  IX 
AT  THE  CROSS-ROADS 

AT  THE  corner  he  looked  down  the  street  and  saw 
the  red  flag  still  swelling  in  the  wind.  A  man  spoke 
to  him;  the  face  was  familiar,  but  he  could  not  recall 
the  name,  until  after  a  few  congratulatory  words  about 
his  political  prospects,  he  remembered,  with  a  start, 
that  he  was  talking  to  Major  Leary. 

"You  may  count  on  a  clean  sweep  of  votes,  Mr. 
Smith — there's  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  the  Major, 
beaming  with  his  amiable  fiery  face. 

"There's  no  doubt  of  it?"  repeated  Ordway,  while 
he  regarded  the  enthusiastic  politician  with  a  per- 
plexed and  troubled  look.  The  Major,  the  political 
campaign,  the  waving  red  flag  and  the  noisy  little 
town  had  receded  to  a  blank  distance  from  the  moment 
in  which  he  stood.  He  wondered  vaguely  what  con- 
nection he — Daniel  Ordway — had  ever  held  with 
these  things? 

Yet  his  smile  was  still  bright  and  cheerful  as  he 
turned  away,  with  an  apologetic  word,  and  passed  on 
into  the  road  to  Cedar  Hill.  The  impulse  which  had 
driven  him  breathlessly  into  Milly's  presence  had 
yielded  now  to  the  mere  dull  apathy  of  indifference, 
and  it  mattered  to  him  no  longer  whether  the  girl 
was  saved  or  lost  in  the  end.  He  thought  of  her 

248 


AT  THE  CROSS-ROADS  249 

vanity,  of  her  trivial  pink  and  white  prettiness  with 
a  return  of  his  old  irritation.  Well,  he  had  done  his 
part — his  temperament  had  ruled  him  at  the  decisive 
instant,  and  the  ensuing  consequences  of  his  confes- 
sion had  ceased  now  to  affect  or  even  to  interest 
him.  Then,  with  something  like  a  pang  of  thought, 
he  remembered  that  he  had  with  his  own  hand  burned 
his  bridges  behind  him,  and  that  there  was  no  Way 
out  for  him  except  the  straight  way  which  led  over 
the  body  of  Daniel  Smith.  His  existence  in  Tap- 
pahannock  Was  now  finished;  his  victory  had  ended 
in  flight;  and  there  was  nothing  ahead  of  him  ex- 
cept the  new  beginning  and  the  old  ending.  A 
fresh  start  and  then  what?  And  afterward  the  few 
years  of  quiet  again  and  at  the  end  the  expected, 
the  inevitable  recurrence  of  the  disgrace  which  he 
had  begun  to  recognise  as  some  impersonal  natural 
law  that  followed  upon  his  footsteps.  As  the  future 
gradually  unrolled  itself  in  his  imagination,  he  felt 
that  his  heart  sickened  in  the  clutch  of  the  terror 
that  had  sprung  upon  him.  Was  there  to  be  no 
end  anywhere?  Could  no  place,  no  name  even 
afford  him  a  permanent  shelter?  Looking  ahead 
now  he  saw  himself  as  an  old  man  wandering  from 
refuge  to  refuge,  pursued  always  by  the  resur- 
rected corpse  of  his  old  life,  which  though  it  contained 
neither  his  spirit  nor  his  will,  still  triumphed  by  the 
awful  semblance  it  bore  his  outv/ard  body.  Was  he 
to  be  always  alone?  Was  there  no  spot  in  his 
future  where  he  could  possess  himself  in  reality  of 
the  freedom  which  was  his  in  name? 


250  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

Without  seeing,  without  hearing,  he  went  almost 
deliriously  where  his  road  led  him,  for  the  terror  in 
his  thought  had  become  a  living  presence  before  which 
his  spirit  rather  than  his  body  moved.  He  walked 
rapidly,  yet  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  feet  were  inert 
and  lifeless  weights  which  were  dragged  forward  by  the 
invincible  torrent  of  his  will.  In  the  swiftness  of  his 
flight,  he  felt  that  he  was  a  conscious  soul  chained  to 
a  body  that  was  a  corpse. 

When  he  came  at  last  to  the  place  where  the  two 
roads  crossed  before  the  ruined  gate,  he  stopped 
short,  while  the  tumult  died  gradually  in  his  brain, 
and  the  agony  through  which  he  had  just  passed 
appeared  as  a  frenzy  to  his  saner  judgment.  Looking 
up  a  moment  later  as  he  was  about  to  enter  the  avenue, 
he  saw  that  Emily  Brooke  was  walking  toward  him 
under  the  heavy  shadow  of  the  cedars.  In  the  first 
movement  of  her  surprise  the  mask  which  she  had 
always  worn  in  his  presence  dropped  from  her  face, 
and  as  she  stepped  from  the  gloom  into  the  sunlight, 
he  felt  that  the  sweetness  of  her  look  bent  over  him 
like  protecting  wings.  For  a  single  instant,  as  her 
eyes  gazed  wide  open  into  his,  he  saw  reflected  in 
them  the  visions  from  which  his  soul  had  shrunk 
back  formerly  abashed.  Nothing  had  changed  in 
her  since  yesterday;  she  was  outwardly  the  same 
brave  and  simple  woman,  with  her  radiant  smile, 
her  blown  hair,  and  her  roughened  hands.  Yet 
because  of  that  revealing  look  she  appeared  no  lon- 
ger human  in  his  eyes,  but  something  almost 
unearthly  bright  and  distant,  like  the  sunshine  he 


AT  THE  CROSS-ROADS  25! 

had  followed  so  often  through  the  bars  of  his 
prison  cell. 

"You  are  suffering,"  she  said-,  when  he  would  have 
passed  on,  and  he  felt  that  she  had  divined  without 
words  all  that  he  could  not  utter. 

"Don't  pity  me,"  he  answered,  smiling-  at  her 
question,  because  to  smile  had  become  for  him  the 
easier  part  of  habit,  "I'm  not  above  liking  pity,  but 
it  isn't  exactly  what  I  need.  And  besides,  I  told  you 
once,  you  know,  that  wrhatever  happened  to  me  would 
always  be  the  outcome  of  my  own  failure." 

"Yes,  I  remember  you  told  me  so — but  does  that 
make  it  any  easier  to  bear?" 

"Easier  to  bear? — no,  but  I  don't  think  the  chief 
end  of  things  is  to  be  easy,  do  you?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  But  isn't  our  chief  end  just 
to  make  them  easier  for  others?"  she  asked. 

The  pity  in  her  face  was  like  an  illumination,  and 
her  features  were  enkindled  with  a  beauty  he  had 
never  found  in  them  before.  It  was  the  elemental 
motherhood  in  her  nature  that  he  had  touched;  and 
he  felt  as  he  Watched  her  that  this  ecstasy  of  tender- 
ness swelled  in  her  bosom  and  overflowed  her  lips. 
Confession  to  her  would  have  been  for  him  the 
supreme  luxury  of  despair;  but  because  his  heart 
strained  toward  her,  he  drew  back  and  turned  his 
eyes  to  the  road,  which  stretched  solitary  and  dim 
beyond  them. 

"Well,  I  suppose,  I've  got  what  I  deserved,"  he 
said,  "the  price  that  a  man  pays  for  being  a  fool,  he 
pays  but  once  and  that  is  his  whole  life  long." 


252  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"But  it  ought  not  to  be  so — it  is  not  just,"  she 
answered. 

"Just?"  he  repeated,  bitterly,  "no,  I  dare  say,  it 
isn't — but  the  facts  of  life  don't  trouble  themselves 
about  justice,  do  they?  Is  it  just,  for  instance,  that 
you  should  slave  your  youth  away  on  your  brother's 
farm,  while  he  sits  and  plays  dominoes  on  the  porch? 
Is  it  just  that  with  the  instinct  for  luxury  in  your 
blood  you  should  be  condemned  to  a  poverty  so 
terrible  as  this?"  He  reached  out  and  touched  the 
little  red  hand  hanging  at  her  side.  "Is  this  just?" 
he  questioned  with  an  ironical  smile. 

"There  is  some  reason  for  it,"  she  answered  bravely, 
"I  feel  it  though  I  cannot  see  it." 

"Some  reason — yes,  but  that  reason  is  not  justice 
— not  the  little  human  justice  that  we  can  call  by  the 
name.  It's  something  infinitely  bigger  than  any 
idea  that  we  have  known." 

"I  can  trust,"  she  said  softly,  "but  I  can't  reason." 

"Don't  reason — don't  even  attempt  to — let  God 
run  his  world.  Do  you  think  if  we  didn't  believe  in 
the  meaning — in  the  purpose  of  it  all  that  you  and 
I  could  stand  together  here  like  this?  It's  because 
we  believe  that  we  can  be  happy  even  while  we  suffer." 

"Then  you  will  be  happy  again — to-morrow?" 

"Surely.  Perhaps  to-night — who  knows?  I've 
had  a  shock.  My  brain  is  whirling  and  I  can't  see 
straight.  In  a  little  while  it  will  be  over  and  I  shall 
steady  down." 

"  But  I  should  like  to  help  you  now  while  it  lasts," 
she  said. 


AT  THE  CROSS-ROADS  253 

"You  are  helping  me — it's  a  mercy  that  you 
stand  there  and  listen  to  my  wild  talk.  Do  you 
know  I  was  telling  myself  as  I  came  along  the  road 
just  now  that  there  wasn't  a  living  soul  to  whom  I 
should  dare  to  say  that  I  was  in  a  quake  of  fear." 

"A  quake  of  fear?"  She  looked  at  him  with 
swimming  eyes,  and  by  that  look  he  saw  that  she 
loved  him.  If  he  had  stretched  out  his  arms,  he 
knew  that  the  passion  of  her  sorrow  would  have  swept 
her  to  his  breast;  and  he  felt  that  every  fibre  of  his 
starved  soul  and  body  cried  out  for  the  divine  food 
that  she  offered.  At  the  moment  he  did  not  stop 
to  ask  himself  whether  it  was  his  flesh  or  his  spirit 
that  hungered  after  her,  for  his  whole  being  had  dis- 
solved into  the  longing  which  drew  him  as  with  cords 
to  her  lips.  All  he  understood  at  the  instant  was 
that  in  his  terrible  loneliness  love  had  been  offered 
him  and  he  must  refuse  the  gift.  A  thought  passed 
like  a  drawn  sword  between  them,  and  he  saw  in  his 
imagination  Lydia  lowering  her  black  veil  at  their 
last  parting. 

"It's  a  kind  of  cowardliness,  I  suppose,"  he  went 
on  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  "but  I  was  thinking 
that  minute  how  gre"atly  I  needed  help  and  how 
much — how  very  much — you  had  given  me.  If  I 
ever  learn  really  to  live  it  will  be  because  of  you — 
because  of  your  wonderful  courage,  your  unfailing 
sweetness ' ' 

For  the  first  time  he  saw  in  her  face  the  conscious- 
ness of  her  own  unfulfilment.  "If  you  only  knew 
how  often  I  wonder  if  it  is  worth  while, ' '  she  answered. 


254  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

At  this  he  made  a  sudden  start  forward  and  then 
checked  himself.  "The  chief  tragedy  in  my  life," 
he  said,  "is  that  I  knew  you  twenty  years  too  late." 

Until  his  words  were  uttered  he  did  not  realise 
how  much  of  a  confession  he  had  put  into  them; 
and  with  the  discovery  he  watched  her  face  bloom 
softly  like  a  flower  that  opens  its  closed  petals. 

"If  I  could  have  helped  you  then,  why  cannot  I 
help  you  now?"  she  asked,  while  the  innocence  in  her 
look  humbled  him  more  than  a  divine  fury  would  have 
done.  The  larger  his  ideal  of  her  became,  the  keener 
grew  his  sense  of  failure — of  bondage  to  that  dead 
past  from  which  he  could  never  release  his  living 
body.  As  he  looked  at  her  now  he  realised  that  the 
supreme  thing  he  had  missed  in  life  was  the  control 
of  the  power  which  lies  in  simple  goodness  : 
and  the  purity  of  Lydia  appeared  to  him  as  a  shining 
blank — an  unwritten  surface  beside  the  passionate 
humanity  in  the  heart  of  the  girl  before  him. 

"You  will  hear  things  from  others  which  I  can't 
tell  you  and  then  you  will  understand,"  he  said. 

"I  shall  hear  nothing  that  will  make  me  cease  to 
believe  in  you,"  she  answered. 

"You  will  hear  that  I  have  done  wrong  in  my  life  and 
you  will  understand  that  if  I  have  suffered  it  has 
been  by  my  own  fault." 

She  met  his  gaze  without  wavering. 

"I  shall  still  believe  in  you,"  she  responded. 

Her  eyes  were  on  his  face  and  she  saw  that  the  wan 
light  of  the  afterglow  revealed  the  angularities  of  his 
brow  and  chin  and  filled  in  with  shadows  the  deeper 


AT  THE  CROSS-ROADS  255 

hollows  in  his  temples.  The  smile  on  his  lips  was 
almost  ironical  as  he  answered. 

"Those  from  whom  I  might  have  expected  loyalty, 
fell  away  from  me — my  father,  my  wifes  my  chil- 
dren  " 

"To  believe  against  belief  is  a  woman's  virtue," 
she  responded,  "but  at  least  it  is  a  virtue." 

"You  mean  that  you  would  have  been  my  friend 
through  everything?"  he  asked  quickly,  half  blinded 
by  the  ideal  which  seemed  to  flash  so  closely  to  his 
eyelids. 

There  was  scorn  in  her  voice  as  she  answered:  "If 
I  had  been  your  friend  once — yes,  a  thousand  times." 

Before  his  inward  vision  there  rose  the  conception 
of  a  love  that  would  have  pardoned,  blessed  and 
purified.  Bending  his  head  he  kissed  her  little  cold 
hand  once  and  let  it  fall.  Then  without  looking  again 
into  her  face,  he  entered  the  avenue  and  went  on  alone. 


CHAPTER  X 

BETWEEN  MAN  AND  MAN 

WHEN  he  entered  Tappahannock  the  following 
morning,  he  saw  with  surprise  that  the  red  flag  was 
still  flying  above  the  street.  As  he  looked  into  the 
face  of  the  first  man  he  met,  he  felt  a  sensation 
of  relief,  almost  of  gratitude  because  he  received 
merely  the  usual  morning  greeting;  and  the  instant 
afterward  he  flinched  and  hesitated  before  replying 
to  the  friendly  nod  of  the  harness-maker,  stretching 
himself  under  the  hanging  bridles  in  the  door  of  the 
little  shop. 

Entering  the  warehouse  he  glanced  nervously  down 
the  deserted  building,  and  when  a  moment  later 
he  opened  the  door  into  Baxter's  office,  he  grew 
hot  at  the  familiar  sight  of  the  local  newspaper  in 
his  employer's  hands.  The  years  had  divided 
suddenly  and  he  saw  again  the  crowd  in  Fifth  Avenue 
as  he  walked  home  on  the  morning  of  his  arrest.  He 
smelt  the  smoke  of  the  great  city;  he  heard  the  sharp 
street  cries  around  him;  and  he  pushed  aside  the 
fading  violets  offered  him  by  the  crippled  flower 
seller  at  the  corner.  He  even  remembered,  without 
effort,  the  particular  bit  of  scandal  retailed  to  him 
over  a  cigar  by  the  club  wit  who  had  joined  him. 
All  his  sensations  to-day  were  what  they  had  been 

256 


BETWEEN  MAN  AND  MAN  257 

then,  only  now  his  consciousness  was  less  acute,  as 
if  the  edge  of  his  perceptions  had  been  blunted  by 
the  force  of  the  former  blow. 

"Howdy,  Smith,  is  that  you?"  remarked  Baxter, 
crushing  the  top  of  the  paper  beneath  the  weight  of 
his  chin  as  he  looked  over  it  at  Ordway.  "Did 
you  meet  Banks  as  you  came  in?  He  was  in  here 
asking  for  you  not  two  minutes  ago." 

"Banks?  No,  I  didn't  see  him.  What  did  he 
Want?"  As  he  put  the  ordinary  question  the  dull 
level  of  his  voice  surprised  him. 

"Oh,  he  didn't  tell  me,"  returned  Baxter,  "but 
it  was  some  love-lorn  whining  he  had  to  do,  I  reckon. 
Now  what  I  can't  understand  is  how  a  man  can  be 
so  narrow  sighted  as  only  to  see  one  woman  out  of 
the  whole  bouncing  sex  of  'em.  It  would  take  more 
than  a  refusal — it  would  take  a  downright  football 
to  knock  out  my  heart.  Good  Lord!  in  this  world 
of  fine  an*  middling  fine  women,  the  trouble  ain't 
to  get  the  one  you  want,  but  to  keep  on  wanting  the 
one  you  get.  I've  done  my  little  share  of  observing 
in  my  time,  and  what  I've  learned  from  it  is  that  the 
biggest  trial  a  man  can  have  is  not  to  want  another 
man's  wife,  but  to  want  to  want  his  own." 

A  knock  at  the  door  called  Ordway  out  into  the 
Warehouse,  where  he  yielded  himself  immediately  to 
the  persuasive  voice  of  Banks. 

"Come  back  here  a  minute,  will  you,  out  of  hear- 
ing? I  tried  to  get  to  you  last  night  and  couldn't." 

"Has  anything  gone  wrong?"  inquired  Ordway, 
following  the  other  to  a  safe  distance  from  Baxter's 


258  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

office.  At  first  he  had  hardly  had  courage  to  lift 
his  eyes  to  Banks'  face,  but  reassured  by  the  quiet 
opening  of  the  conversation,  he  stood  now  with 
his  sad  gaze  fixed  on  the  beaming  freckled  features 
of  the  melancholy  lover. 

"I  only  wanted  to  tell  you  that  she  didn't  go," 
whispered  Banks,  rolling  his  prominent  eyes  into  the 
dusky  recesses  of  the  warehouse,  "she's  ill  in  bed 
to-day,  and  Brown  left  town  on  the  eight-forty-five 
this  morning." 

"So  he's  gone  for  good!"  exclaimed  Ordway,  and 
drew  a  long  breath  as  if  he  had  been  released  from 
an  emotional  tension  which  had  suspended,  while  it 
lasted,  the  ordinary  movement  of  life.  Since  he  had 
prepared  himself  for  the  worst  was  it  possible  that 
his  terror  of  yesterday  would  scatter  to-day  like  the 
delusions  of  an  unsettled  brain?  Had  Wherry  held 
back  in  mercy  or  had  Milly  Trend  ?  Even  if  he  were( 
spared  now  must  he  still  live  on  here  unaware  how 
widely — or  how  pitifully — his  secret  was  known? 
Would  this  ceaseless  dread  of  discovery  prove  again, 
as  it  had  proved  in  the  past,  more  terrible  even  than 
the  discovery  itself?  Would  he  be  able  to  look  fear- 
lessly at  Milly  Trend  again? — at  Baxter?  at  Banks? 
at  Emily?" 

"Well,  I've  got  to  thank  you  for  it,  Smith?"  said 
Banks.  "How  you  stopped  it,  I  don't  know  for  the 
life  of  me,  but  stop  it  you  did." 

The  cheerful  sel-fishness  in  such  rejoicing  struck 
Ordway  even  in  the  midst  of  his  own  bitter  musing. 
Though  Banks  adored  Milly,  soul  and  body,  he  was 


BETWEEN  MAN  AND  MAN  259 

frankly  jubilant  over  the  tragic  ending  of  her  short 
romance. 

"I  hope  there's  little  danger  of  its  beginning  anew," 
Ordway  remarked  presently,  with  less  sympathy 
than  he  would  have  shown  his  friend  twelve  hours 
before. 

"I  suppose  you  wouldn't  like  to  tell  me  what  you 
said  to  her?"  inquired  Banks,  his  customary  awe 
of  his  companion  swept  away  in  the  momentary 
swing  of  his  elation. 

"  No,  I  shouldn't  like  to  tell  you,"  returned  Ordway 
quietly. 

"Then  it's  all  right,  of  course,  and  I'll  be  off  to 
drape  the  town  hall  in  bunting  for  to-morrow  night. 
We're  going  to  make  the  biggest  political  display 
for  you  that  Tappahannock  has  ever  seen." 

At  the  instant  Ordway  was  hardly  conscious  of 
the  immensity  of  his  relief,  but  some  hours 
later,  after  the  early  closing  of  the  warehouse, 
when  he  walked  slowly  back  along  the  road 
to  Cedar  Hill,  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  life  had 
settled  again  into  its  quiet  monotonous  spaces.  The 
peaceful  fields  on  either  side,  with  their  short  crop 
of  live-ever-lasting,  in  which  a  few  lonely  sheep  were 
browsing,  appeared  to  him  now  as  a  part  of  the 
inward  breadth  and  calm  of  the  years  that  he  had' 
spent  in  Tappahannock. 

In  the  loneliness  of  the  road  he  could  tell  himself 
that  the  fear  of  Gus  Wherry  was  gone  for  a  time  at 
least,  yet  the  next  day  upon  going  into  town  he  was 
aware  of  the  same  nervous  shrinking  from  the  people 


260  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

he  passed,  from  the  planters  hanging  about  the 
warehouse,  from  Baxter  buried  behind  his  local 
newspaper. 

"They've  got  a  piece  as  long  as  your  arm  about 
you  in  the  Tappahannock  Herald,  Smith,"  cried 
Baxter,  chuckling;  and  Ordway  felt  himself  redden 
painfully  with  apprehension.  Not  until  the  evening, 
when  he  came  out  upon  the  platform  under  the  float- 
ing buntings  in  the  town  hall,  did  he  regain  entirely 
the  self-possession  which  he  had  lost  in  the  presence 
of  Milly  Trend. 

In  its  white  and  red  decorations,  with  the  extrava- 
gant glare  of  its  gas-jets,  the  hall  had  assumed  almost 
a  festive  appearance;  and  as  Ordway  glanced  at  the 
crowded  benches  and  doorways,  he  forgot  the  trivial 
political  purpose  he  was  to  serve,  in  the  more  human 
relation  in  which  he  stood  to  the  men  who  had 
gathered  to  hear  him  speak.  These  men  v/ere  his 
friends,  and  if  they  believed  in  him  he  felt  a  trium- 
phant conviction  that  they  had  seen  their  belief 
justified  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  since  he  had  come 
among  them.  In  the  crowd  of  faces  before  him,  he 
recognised,  here  and  there,  workingmen  whom  he  had 
helped — operatives  in  Jasper  Trend's  cotton  mills, 
or  in  the  smaller  factories  which  combined  with  the 
larger  to  create  the  political  situation  in  Tappa- 
hannock. Closer  at  hand  he  saw  the  shining  red 
face  of  Major  Leary;  the  affectionate  freckled  face 
of  Banks;  the  massive  benevolent  face  of  Baxter. 
As  he  looked  at  them  an  emotion  which  was  almost 
one  of  love  stirred  in  his  breast,  and  he  felt  the  words 


BETWEEN  MAN  AND  MAN  261 

he  had  prepared  dissolve  and  fade  from  his  memory 
to  reunite  in  an  appeal  of  which  he  had  not  thought 
until  this  minute.  There  was  something,  he  knew 
now,  tor  him  to  say  to-night — something  so  infinitely 
large  that  he  could  utter  it  only  because  it  rose  like 
love  or  sorrow  to  his  lips.  Of  all  the  solemn  moments 
when  he  had  stood  before  these  men,  with  his 
open  Bible,  in  the  green  field  or  in  the  little  grove 
of  pines,  there  was  none  so  solemn,  he  felt,  as  the 
approaching  instant  in  which  he  would  speak  to 
them  no  longer  as  a  man  to  children,  but  as  a  man 
to  men. 

On  the  stage  before  him  Baxter  was  addressing 
the  house,  his  soft,  persuasive  voice  mingling  with 
a  sympathetic  murmur  from  the  floor.  The  applause 
which  had  broken  out  at  Ordway's  entrance  had  not 
yet  died  away,  and  with  each  mention  of  his  name, 
with  each  allusion  to  his  services  to  Tappahannock, 
it  burst  forth  again,  enthusiastic,  irrepressible,  over- 
whelming. Never  before,  it  seemed  to  him,  sitting 
there  on  the  platform  with  his  roughened  hands 
crossed  on  his  knees,  had  he  felt  himself  to  be  so 
intimately  a  part  of  the  community  in  which  he  lived. 
Never  before — not  even  when  he  had  started  this 
man  in  life,  had  bought  off  that  one's  mortgage  or 
had  helped  another  to  struggle  free  of  drink,  had 
he  come  quite  so  near  to  the  pathetic  individual  lives 
that  compose  the  mass.  They  loved  him,  they 
believed  in  him,  and  they  were  justified!  At  the 
moment  it  seemed  to  him  nothing — less  than  nothing 
— that  they  should  make  him  Mayor  of  Tappa- 


262  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

hannock.  In  this  one  instant  of  understanding  they 
had  given  him  more  than  any  office  —  than  any 
honour. 

While  he  sat  there  outwardly  so  still,  so  confident 
of  his  success,  it  seemed  to  him  that  in  the  exhilara- 
tion of  the  hour  he  was  possessed  of  a  new  and  singu- 
larly penetrating  insight  into  life.  Not  only  did  he 
see  further  and  deeper  than  he  had  ever  seen  before, 
but  he  looked  beyond  the  beginning  of  things  into 
the  causes  and  beyond  the  ending  of  them  into  the 
results.  He  saw  himself  and  why  he  was  himself  as 
clearly  as  he  saw  his  sin  and  why  he  had  sinned. 
Out  of  their  obscurity  his  father  and  his  mother 
returned  to  him,  and  as  he  met  the  bitter 
ironical  smile  of  the  one  and  the  curved  black  brows 
and  red,  half  open  mouth  of  the  other,  he  knew 
himself  to  be  equally  the  child  of  each,  for  he  under- 
stood at  last  why  he  was  a  mixture  of  strength  and 
weakness,  of  gaiety  and  sadness,  of  bitterness  and 
compassion.  His  short,  troubled  childhood  rushed 
through  his  thoughts,  and  with  that  swiftness  of 
memory  which  comes  so  often  in  tragic  moments, 
he  lived  over  again — not  separately  and  in  successive 
instants — but  fully,  vitally,  and  in  all  the  freshness 
of  experience,  the  three  events  which  he  saw  now, 
in  looking  back,  as  the  n  ilestones  upon  his  road. 
Again  he  saw  his  mother  as  she  lay  in  her  coffin, 
with  her  curved  black  brows  and  half  open  mouth 
frozen  into  a  joyous  look,  and  in  that  single 
fleeting  instant  he  passed  through  his  meeting  with 
the  convict  at  the  wayside  station,  and  through  the  long 


BETWEEN  MAN  AND  MAN  263 

suspended  minutes  when  he  had  waited  in  the  Stock 
Exchange  for  the  rise  in  the  market  which  did 
not  come.  And  these  things  appeared  to  him,  not 
as  detached  and  obscure  remnants  of  his  past,  but 
clear  and  delicate  and  vivid  as  if  they  were  projected 
in  living  colours  against  the  illumination  of  his  mind. 
They  were  there  not  to  bewilder,  but  to  make  plain; 
not  to  accuse,  but  to  vindicate.  "Everything  is 
clear  to  me  now  and  I  see  it  all,"  he  thought,  "and  if 
I  can  only  keep  this  penetration  of  vision  nothing 
will  be  harder  to-morrow  than  it  is  to-night."  In  his 
whole  life  there  was  not  an  incident  too  small  for  him 
to  remember  it  and  to  feel  that  it  was  significant  of 
all  the  rest;  and  he  knew  that  if  he  could  have  seen 
from  the  beginning  as  clearly  as  he  saw  to-night,  his 
past  would  not  have  been  merely  different,  it  would 
have  been  entirely  another  than  his  own. 

Baxter  had  stopped,  and  turning  with  an  embar- 
rassed upheaval  of  his  whole  body,  he  spoke  to  Ord- 
way,  who  rose  at  his  words  and  came  slowly  forward 
to  the  centre  of  the  stage.  A  hoarse  murmur, 
followed  by  a  tumult  of  shouts,  greeted  him,  while 
he  stood  for  a  moment  looking  silently  among  those 
upturned  faces  for  the  faces  of  the  men  to  whom  he 
must  speak.  "That  one  will  listen  because  I  nursed 
him  back  to  life,  and  that  one  because  I  brought  him 
out  of  ruin — and  that  one  and  that  one — "  He 
knew  them  each  by  name,  and  as  his  gaze  travelled 
from  man  to  man  he  felt  that  he  was  seeking  'a 
refuge  from  some  impending  evil  in  the  shelter  of 
the  good  deeds  that  he  had  done. 


264  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

Though  ne  held  a  paper  in  his  hand,  he  did  not 
look  at  it,  for  he  had  found  his  words  in  that  instant 
of  illumination  when,  seated  upon  the  stage,  he  had 
seen  the  meaning  of  his  whole  life  made  plain.  The 
present  event  and  the  issue  of  it  no  longer  concerned 
him;  he  had  ceased  to  fear,  even  to  shrink  from 
the  punishment  that  was  yet  to  come.  In  the  com- 
pleteness with  which  he  yielded  himself  to  the  moment, 
he  lelt  that  he  was  possessed  of  the  calm,  almost  of 
the  power  of  necessity ;  and  he  experienced  suddenly 
the  sensation  of  being  lifted  and  swept  forward  on 
one  of  the  high  waves  of  life.  He  spoke  rapidly, 
without  effort,  almost  without  consciousness  of  the 
words  he  uttered,  until  it  seemed  to  him  presently 
that  it  was  the  torrent  of  his  speech  which  carried 
him  outward  and  upward  with  that  strange  sense  of 
lightness,  of  security.  And  this  lightness,  this  security 
belonged  not  to  him,  but  to  some  outside  current 
of  being. 


His  speech  was  over,  and  he  had  spoken  to  these 
factory  workers  as  no  man  had  spoken  before  him  in 
Tappahannock.  With  his  last  word  the  silence  had 
held  tight  and  strained  for  a  minute,  and  then  the 
grateful  faces  pressed  round  him  and  the  ringing 
cheers  passed  through  the  open  windows  out 
into  the  street.  His  body  was  still  trembling, 
but  as  he  stood  there  with  his  sparkling  blue  eyes  on 
the  house,  he  looked  gay  and  boyish.  He  had  made 
his  mark,  he  had  spoken  his  best  speech,  and  he  had 


BETWEEN  MAN  AND  MAN  265 

touched  not  merely  the  factory  toilers  in  Tappa- 
hannock,  but  that  common  pulse  of  feeling  in  which 
all  humanity  is  made  one.  Then  the  next  instant, 
while  he  still  waited,  he  was  aware  of  a  new  movement 
upon  the  platform  behind  him,  and  a  man  came 
forward  and  stopped  short  under  the  gas  jet,  which 
threw  a  flickering  yellow  light  upon  his  face.  Though 
he  had  seen  him  but  once,  he  recognized  him 
instantly  as  the  short,  long-nosed,  irascible  mana- 
ger of  the  cotton  mills,  and  with  the  first  glance 
into  his  face  he  had  heard  already  the  unspoken 
question  and  the  reply. 

"May  I  ask  you,  Mr.  Smith,"  began  the  little 
man,  suddenly,  "if  you  can  prove  your  right  to  vote 
or  to  hold  office  in  Virginia?" 

Ordway's  gaze  passed  beyond  him  to  rest  upon 
Baxter  and  Major  Leary,  who  sat  close  together, 
genial,  elated,  rather  thirsty.  At  the  moment  he 
felt  sorry  for  Baxter — not  for  himself. 

"No,"  he  answered  with  a  smile  which  threw  a 
humorous  light  upon  the  question,  "I  cannot  — 
can  you  prove  yours?" 

The  little  man  cleared  his  throat  with  a  sniffling 
sound,  and  when  he  spoke  again  it  was  in  a  high 
nasal  voice,  as  if  he  had  become  suddenly  very 
excited  or  very  angry. 

"Is  your  name  Daniel  Smith?"  he  asksd,  with  a 
short  laugh. 

The  question  was  out  at  last  and  the  silence  in 
which  Ordway  stood  was  like  the  suspension  between 
thought  and  thought.  All  at  once  he  found  himself 


266  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

wondering  why  he  had  lived  in  hourly  terror  of  this 
instant,  for  now  that  it  was  upon  him,  he  saw  that 
it  was  no  more  tragic,  no  less  commonplace,  than  the 
most  ordinary  instant  of  his  life.  As  in  the  past  his 
courage  had  revived  in  him  with  the  first  need  of 
decisive  action,  so  he  felt  it  revive  now,  and  lifting 
his  head,  he  looked  straight  into  the  angry,  little  eyes 
of  the  man  who  waited,  under  the  yellow  gaslight,  on 
the  platform  before  him. 

"My  name,"  he  answered,  still  smiling,  "is  Daniel 
Ordway." 

There  was  no  confusion  in  his  mind,  no  anxiety, 
no  resentment.  Instead  the  wonderful  brightness 
of  a  moment  ago  still  shone  in  his  thoughts,  and 
while  he  appeared  to  rest  his  sparkling  gaze  on  the 
face  of  his  questioner,  he  was  seeing,  in  reality,  the 
road  by  which  he  had  come  to  Tappahannock,  and  at 
the  beginning  of  the  road  the  prison,  and  beyond 
the  prison  the  whole  of  his  past  life. 

"Did  you  serve  a  term  in  prison  before  you  came 
here?" 

"Yes." 

"Were  you  tried  and  convicted  in  New  York?" 

"Yes/' 

"Were  you  guilty?" 

Looking  over  the  head  of  the  little  man,  Ordway's 
gaze  travelled  slowly  across  the  upturned  faces  upon 
the  floor  of  the  house.  Hardly  a  man  passed  under 
his  look  whom  he  had  not  assisted  once  at  least  in  the 
hour  of  his  need.  "I  saved  that  one  from  drink," 
he  thought  almost  joyfully,  "that  one  from  beggary — 


BETWEEN  MAN  AND  MAN  267 

I  stood  side  by  side  with  that  other  in  the  hour  of 
his  shame " 

"Were  you  guilty?"  repeated  the  high  nasal  voice 
in  his  ear. 

His  gaze  came  quickly  back,  and  as  it  passed  over 
the  head  of  Baxter,  he  was  conscious  again  of  a  throb 
of  pity. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  for  the  last  time.  Then, 
while  the  silence  lasted,  he  turned  from  the  platform 
and  went  out  of  the  hall  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XI 
BETWEEN  MAN  AND  WOMAN 

HE  WALKED  rapidly  to  the  end  of  the  street,  and 
then  slackened  his  pace  almost  unconsciously  as  he 
turned  into  the  country  road.  The  night  had  closed  in 
a  thick  black  curtain  over  the  landscape,  and  the  win- 
dows of  the  Negroes'  cabins  burned  like  little  still  red 
flames  along  the  horizon.  Straight  ahead  the  road  was 
visible  as  a  pale,  curving  streak  across  the  darkness. 

A  farmer,  carrying  a  lantern,  came  down  the  path 
leading  from  the  fields,  and  hearing  Ordway's  foot- 
steps in  the  road,  flashed  the  light  suddenly  into  his 
face.  Upon  recognition  there  followed  a  cheerful 
' '  good-night ! ' '  and  the  offer  of  the  use  of  the  lantern 
to  Cedar  Hill.  "It's  a  black  night  and  you'll 
likely  have  trouble  in  keeping  straight.  I've  been 
to  look  after  a  sick  cow,  but  I  can  feel  my  way  up 
to  the  house  in  two  minutes." 

"Thank  you,"  returned  Ordway,  smiling  as  the 
light  shone  full  in  his  face,  "but  my  feet  are  accus- 
tomed to  the  road." 

He  passed  on,  while  the  farmer  turned  at  the  gate 
by  the  roadside,  to  shout  cheerfully  after  him: 
"Well,  good-night— Mayor!" 

The  gate  closed  quickly,  and  the  ray  of  the  lantern 
darted  like  a  pale  yellow  moth  across  the  grass. 

268 


BETWEEN  MAN  AND  WOMAN          269 

As  Ordway  went  on  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  dark- 
ness became  tangible,  enveloping — that  he  had  to 
fight  his  way  through  it  presently  as  through  water. 
The  little  red  flames  danced  along  the  horizon  until 
he  wondered  if  they  were  burning  only  in  his  imagina- 
tion. He  felt  tired  and  dazed  as  if  his  body  had  been 
beaten  into  insensibility,  but  the  hour  through  which 
he  had  just  passed  appeared  to  have  left  merely  a 
fading  impression  upon  his  brain.  Not  only  had  he 
ceased  to  care,  he  had  ceased  to  think  of  it.  When 
he  tried  now  to  recall  the  manager  of  the 
cotton  mills,  it  was  to  remember,  with  aversion,  his 
angry  little  eyes,  his  high  nasal  voice,  and  the  wart 
upon  the  end  of  his  long  nose.  At  the  instant  these 
physical  details  were  the  only  associations  which  the 
man's  name  presented  to  his  thoughts.  The  rest 
was  something  so  insignificant  that  it  had  escaped 
his  memory.  He  felt  in  a  vague  way  that  he 
was  sorry  for  Baxter,  yet  this  very  feeling  of  sym- 
pathy bored  and  annoyed  him.  It  was  plainly 
ridiculous  to  be  sorry  for  a  person  as  rich,  as  fat,  as 
well  fed  as  his  employer.  Wherever  he  looked  the 
little  red  flames  flickered  and  waved  in  the  fields,  and 
when  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  dark  sky,  he  saw 
them  come  and  go  in  short,  scintillant  flashes,  like 
fire  struck  from  an  anvil.  They  were  in  his  brain, 
he  supposed,  after  all,  and  so  was  this  tangible 
darkness,  and  so,  too,  was  this  indescribable  delicacy 
and  lightness  with  which  he  moved.  Everything 
was  in  his  brain,  even  his  ridiculous  pity  for 
Baxter  and  the  angry-eyed  little  manager  with 


270  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

the  wart  on  his  long  nose.  He  could  see  these 
things  distinctly,  though  he  had  forgotten  everything 
that  had  been  so  clear  to  him  while  he  stood  on  the 
stage  of  the  town  hall.  His  past  life  and  the  prison 
and  even  the  illumination  in  which  he  had  remem- 
bered them  so  vividly  were  obscured  now  as  if  they, 
too,  had  been  received  into  the  tangible  darkness. 

From  the  road  behind  him  the  sound  of  footsteps 
reached  him  suddenly,  and  he  quickened  his  pace 
with  an  impulse,  rather  than  a  determination  of 
flight.  But  the  faster  he  walked  the  faster  came  the 
even  beat  of  the  footsteps,  now  rising,  now  falling  with 
a  rhythmic  regularity  in  the  dust  of  the  road.  Once 
he  glanced  back,  but  he  could  see  nothing  because  of 
the  encompassing  blackness ,  and  in  the  instant  of  his 
delay  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  pursuit  gained 
steadily  upon  him,  still  moving  with  the  regular 
muffled  beat  of  the  footsteps  in  the  thick  dust.  A 
horror  of  recognition  had  come  over  him,  and  as  he 
walked  on  breathlessly,  now  almost  running,  it 
occurred  to  him,  like  an  inspiration,  that  he  might 
drop  aside  into  the  fields  and  so  let  his  pursuer  pass 
on  ahead.  The  next  instant  he  realised  that  the  dark- 
ness could  not  conceal  the  abrupt  pause  of  his  flight — • 
that  as  those  approaching  footsteps  fell  on  his  ears, 
so  must  the  sound  of  his  fall  on  the  ears  of  the  man 
behind  him.  Then  a  voice  called  his  name,  and  he 
stopped  short,  and  stood,  trembling  from  head  to 
foot,  by  the  side  of  the  road. 

"Smith!"  cried  the  voice,  "if  it's  you,  Smith,  for 
God's  sake  stop  a  minute!" 


BETWEEN  MAN  AND  WOMAN          271 

"Yes,  it's  I,"  he  answered,  waiting,  and  a  moment 
afterward  the  hand  of  Banks  reached  out  of  the  night 
and  clasped  his  arm. 

"Hold  on,"  said  Banks,  breathing  hard,  "I'm  all 
blown." 

His  laboured  breath  came  with  a  struggling  violence 
that  died  gradually  away,  but  while  it  lasted  the 
strain  of  the  meeting,  the  awkwardness  of  the  emo- 
tional crisis,  seemed  suddenly  put  off  —  suspended. 
Now  in  the  silence  the  tension  became  so  great 
that,  drawing  slightly  away  from  the  detaining 
hold,  Ordway  was  about  to  resume  his  walk.  At 
his  first  movement,  however,  Banks  clung  the  more 
firmly  to  his  arm.  "Oh,  damn  it,  Smith!"  he  burst 
out,  and  with  the  exclamation  Ordway  felt  that  the 
touch  of  flesh  and  blood  had  reached  to  the  terrible 
loneliness  in  which  he  stood.  In  a  single  oath  Banks 
had  uttered  the  unutterable  spirit  of  prayer. 

"You  followed  me?"  asked  Ordway  quietly,  while 
the  illusions  of  the  flight,  the  physical  delicacy  and 
lightness,  the  tangible  darkness,  the  little  red  flames 
in  the  fields,  departed  from  him.  With  the  first  hand 
that  was  laid  on  his  own,  his  nature  swung  back  into 
balance,  and  he  felt  that  he  possessed  at  the  moment 
a  sanity  that  was  almost  sublime. 

"As  soon  as  I  could  get  out  I  came.  There  was 
such  a  crush,"  said  Banks,  "I  thought  I'd  catch  up 
with  you  at  once,  but  it  was  so  black  I  couldn't  see 
my  hand  before  me.  In  a  little  while  I  heard  foot- 
steps, so  I  kept  straight  on." 

"I  wish  you  hadn't,  Banks." 


272  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"  But  I  had  to."  His  usually  cheerful  voice  sounded 
hoarse  and  throaty.  "I  ain't  much  of  a  chap  at 
words,  Smith,  you  know  that,  but  I  want  just  to  say 
that  you're  the  best  friend  I  ever  had,  and  I  haven't 
forgot  it — I  haven't  forgot  it,"  he  repeated,  and  blew 
his  nose.  "Nothing  that  that  darn  fool  of  a  mana- 
ger said  to-night  can  come  between  you  and  me," 
he  went  on  laboriously  after  a  minute.  "If  you 
ever  want  my  help,  by  thunder,  I'll  go  to  hell  and 
back  again  for  you  without  a  word." 

Stretching  out  his  free  hand  Ordway  laid  it  upon 
his  friend's  shoulder. 

"You're  a  first-rate  chap,  Banks,"  he  said  cheer- 
fully, at  which  a  loud  sob  burst  from  Banks,  who 
sought  to  disguise  it  the  instant  afterward  in  a 
violent  cough. 

"You're  a  first-rate  chap,"  repeated  Ordway  gently, 
"and  I'm  glad,  in  spite  of  what  I  said,  that  you  came 
after  me  just  now.  I'm  going  away  to-morrow,  you 
know,  and  it's  probable  that  I  shan't  see  you 
again." 

"But  won't  you  stay  on  in  Tappahannock?  In 
two  weeks  all  this  will  blow  over  and  things  will  be 
just  what  they  were  before." 

Ordway  shook  his  head,  a  movement  which  Banks 
felt,  though  he  did  not  see  it. 

"No,  I'll  go  away,  it's  best,"  he  answered,  and 
though  his  voice  had  dropped  to  a  dull  level  there 
was  still  a  cheerful  sound  to  it,  "I'll  go  away  and 
begin  again  in  a  new  place." 

"Then  I'll  go,  too,"  said  Banks. 


BETWEEN  MAN  AND  WOMAN          273 

"What!  and  leave  Milly?  No,  you  won't  come, 
Banks,  you'll  stay  here." 

"But  I'll  see  you  sometimes,  shan't  I?" 

"Perhaps? — that's   likely,   isn't   it?" 

"Yes,  that's  likely,"  repeated  Banks,  and  fell  silent 
from  sheer  weight  of  sorrow.  "At  least  you'll  let  me 
go  with  you  to  the  station?"  he  said  at  last,  after 
a  long  pause  in  which  he  had  been  visited  by  one  of 
those  acute  flashes  of  sympathy  which  are  to  the 
heart  what  intuition  is  to  the  intellect. 

"Why,  of  course,"  responded  Ordway,  more 
touched  by  the  simple  request  than  he  had  been  even 
by  the  greater  loyalty.  "You  may  do  that,  Banks, 
and  I'll  thank  you  for  it.  And  now  go  back  to 
Tappahannock,"  he  added,  "I  must  take  the  mid- 
day train  and  there  are  a  few  preparations  I've 
still  to  make." 

"But  where  will  you  go?"  demanded  Banks, 
swinging  round  again  after  he  had  turned  from  him. 

"Where?"  repeated  Ordway  blankly,  and  he 
added  indifferently,  "I  hadn't  thought." 

"The  midday  train  goes  west,"  said  Banks. 

"Then,   I'll  go  west.     It  doesn't  matter." 

Banks  had  already  started  off,  when  turning  back 
suddenly,  he  caught  Ord way's  hand  and  wrung  it 
in  a  grip  that  hurt.  Then  without  speaking  again, 
he  hurried  breathlessly  in  the  direction  from  which 
he  had  come. 

A  few  steps  beyond  the  cross-roads  Ordway  saw 
through  the  heavy  foliage  the  light  in  the  dining- 
room  at  Cedar  Hill.  Then  as  he  entered  the  avenue, 


274  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

he  lost  sight  of  it  again,  until  he  had  rounded  the 
curve  that  swept  up  to  the  front  porch.  At  his  knock 
Emily  opened  the  door,  with  a  lamp  held  in  her  hand, 
and  he  saw  her  face,  surrounded  by  dim  waves  of 
hair,  shining  pale  and  transparent  in  the  glimmering 
circle  of  light.  As  he  followed  her  into  the  dining- 
room,  he  realised  that  after  the  family  had  gone 
upstairs  to  bed,  she  had  sat  at  her  sewing  under 
the  lamp  and  waited  for  his  knock.  At  the  knowl- 
edge a  sense  of  comfort,  of  homeliness  came  over  him, 
and  he  felt  all  at  once  that  his  misery  was  not  so  great 
as  he  had  believed  it  to  be  a  moment  ago. 

"  May  I  get  you  something? "  she  asked,  placing  the 
lamp  upon  the  table  and  lowering  the  wick  that  the 
flame  might  not  shine  on  his  pallid  and  haggard  face. 

He  shook  his  head;  then  as  she  turned  from  him 
toward  the  hearth,  he  followed  her  and  stood  looking 
down  at  the  smouldering  remains  of  a  wood  fire. 
Her  work-basket  and  a  pile  of  white  ruffles  which  she 
had  been  hemming  were  on  the  table,  but  moved 
by  a  feeling  of  their  utter  triviality  in  the  midst  of  a 
tragedy  she  vaguely  understood,  she  swept  them 
hurriedly  into  a  chair,  and  came  over  to  lay  her  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

"What  can  I  do?  Oh,  what  can  I  do?"  she  asked. 
Taking  her  hand  from  his  sleeve,  he  held  it  for  an 
instant  in  his  grasp,  as  if  the  pressure  of  her  throbbing 
palm  against  his  revived  some  living  current  under 
the  outer  deadness  that  enveloped  him. 

"  I  am  going  away  from  Tappahannock  to-morrow, 
Emily,"  he  said. 


BETWEEN  MAN  AND  WOMAN          275 

"To-morrow?"  she  repeated,  and  laid  her  free 
hand  upon  his  shoulder  with  a  soothing,  motherly 
gesture — a  gesture  which  changed  their  spiritual 
relations  to  those  of  a  woman  and  a  child. 

"A  man  asked  me  three  questions  to-night,"  he 
went  on  quietly,  yet  in  a  voice  which  seemed  to 
feel  a  pang  in  every  word  it  uttered.  "He  asked 
me  if  my  name  was  Daniel  Smith,  and  I  answered — 
no." 

As  he  hesitated,  she  lifted  her  face  and  smiled  at 
him,  with  a  smile  which  he  knew  to  be  the  one  expres- 
sion of  love,  of  comprehension,  that  she  could  offer. 
It  was  a  smile  which  a  mother  might  have  bent  upon 
a  child  that  was  about  to  pass  under  the  surgeon's 
knife,  and  it  differed  from  tears  only  in  that  it  offered 
courage  and  not  weakness. 

"He  asked  me  if  I  had  been  in  prison  before  I 
came  to  Tappahannock — and  I  answered — yes." 

His  voice  broke,  rather  than  ceased,  and  lifting 
his  gaze  from  her  hands  he  looked  straight  into  her 
wide-open  eyes.  The  smile  which  she  had  turned 
to  him  a  moment  before  was  still  on  her  lips,  frozen 
there  in  the  cold  pallor  of  her  face.  Her  eyes  were 
the  only  things  about  her  which  seemed  alive,  and 
they  appeared  to  him  now  not  as  eyes  but  as  thoughts 
made  visible.  Bending  her  head  quickly  she  kissed 
the  hand  which  enclosed  her  own. 

"I  still  believe,"  she  said,  and  looked  into  his  face. 

"  But  it  is  true,"  he  replied  slowly. 

"But  it  is  not  the  whole  truth,"  she  answered, 
"and  for  that  reason  it  is  half  a  lie." 


276  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Yes,  it  is  not  the  whole  truth,"  he  repeated,  in 
his  effort  to  catch  something  of  her  bright  courage. 

"Why  should  they  judge  you  by  that  and  by 
nothing  else?"  she  demanded  with  passion.  "If 
that  was  true,  is  not  your  life  in  Tappahannock 
true  also?" 

"To  you — to  you,"  he  answered,  "but  to-morrow 
everything  will  be  forgotten  about  me  except  the 
fact  that  because  I  had  been  in  prison,  I  have  lived 
a  lie." 

"You  are  wrong — oh,  believe  me,  you  are  wrong," 
she  said  softly,  while  her  tears  broke  forth  and 
streamed  down  her  white  face. 

"No,"  he  returned  patiently,  as  if  weighing  her 
words  in  his  thoughts,  "I  am  right,  and  my  life 
here  is  wasted  now  from  the  day  I  came.  All  that 
I  do  from  this  moment  will  be  useless.  I. must  go 
away." 

"But  where?"  she  questioned  passionately,  as 
Banks  had  questioned  before  her. 

"Where?"  he  echoed,  "I  don't  know — anywhere. 
The  midday  train  goes  west." 

"And  what  will  you  do  in  the  new  place?"  she 
asked  through  her  tears. 

He  shook  his  head  as  if  the  question  hardly  con- 
cerned him. 

"I  shall  begin  again,"  he  answered  indifferently 
at  last. 

She  was  turning  hopelessly  from  him,  when  her 
eyes  fell  upon  a  slip  of  yellow  paper  which  Beverly 
had  placed  under  a  vase  on  the  mantel,  and  drawing 


BETWEEN  MAN  AND  WOMAN          277 

it  out,  she  glanced  at  the  address  before  giving  it 
into  Ordway's  hands. 

"This  must  have  come  for  you  in  the  afternoon," 
she  said,  "I  did  not  see  it." 

Taking  the  telegram  from  her,  he  opened  it  slowly, 
and  read  the  words  twice  over. 

"  Your  father  died  last  night.     Will  you  come  home? 

"RICHARD  ORDWAY." 


BOOK  THIRD 
THE  LARGER  PRISON 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  RETURN  TO  LIFB 

As  THE  train  rounded  the  long  curve,  Ordway 
leaned  from  the  window  and  saw  spread  before  him 
the  smiling  battlefields  that  encircled  Botetourt. 
From  the  shadow  and  sunlight  of  the  distance  a  wind 
blew  in  his  face,  and  he  felt  suddenly  younger,  fresher, 
as  if  the  burden  of  the  years  had  been  lifted  from 
him.  The  Botetourt  to  which  he  was  returning  was 
the  place  of  his  happiest  memories;  and  closing 
his  eyes  to  the  landscape,  he  saw  Lydia  standing 
under  the  sparrows  that  flew  out  from  the  ivied 
walls  of  the  old  church.  He  met  her  pensive  gaze; 
he  watched  her  faint  smile  under  the  long  black 
feather  in  her  hat. 

"His  death  was  unexpected, "  said  a  strange  voice 
in  his  ear/ 'but  for  the  past  five  years  I  've  seen  that 
he  was  a  failing  man." 

The  next  instant  his  thoughts  had  scattered  like 
startled  birds,  and  without  turning  his  head,  he  sat 
straining  his  ears  to  follow  the  conversation  that  went 
on,  above  the  roar  of  the  train,  in  the  seat  behind  him. 

"Had  a  son,  did  n't  he?"  inquired  the  man  who 
had  not  spoken.  "What's  become  of  him,  I'd  like 
to  know?  I  mean  the  chap  who  went  to  smash 
somewhere  in  the  North." 

281 


282  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Oh,  he  misappropriated  trust  funds  and  got 
found  out  and  sent  to  prison.  When  he  came  out, 
he  went  West,  I  heard,  and  struck  a  gold  mine,  but, 
all  the  same,  he  left  his  wife  and  children  for  the 
old  man  to  look  after.  Ever  seen  his  wife?  Well, 
she  's  a  downright  saint,  if  there  ever  lived  one." 

"And  yet  he  went  wrong,  the  more  's  the  pity." 

"  It 's  a  funny  thing,"  commented  the  first  speaker, 
who  was  evidently  of  a  philosophic  bent,  "but  I  've 
often  noticed  that  a  good  wife  is  apt  to  make  a  bad 
husband.  It  looks  somehow  as  if  male  human 
nature,  like  the  Irish  members,  is  obliged  to  sit  on 
the  Opposition  bench.  The  only  example  that 
ever  counts  with  it,  is  an  example  that  urges  the 
other  way." 

"Well,  what  about  this  particular  instance?  I 
hope  at  least  that  she  has  come  into  the  old  man's 
money?" 

"Nobody  can  tell,  but  it's  generally  believed 
that  the  two  children  will  get  the  most  of  it.  The 
son  left  a  boy  and  a  girl  when  he  went  to  prison, 
you  know." 

"Ah,  that 's  rather  a  pity,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  I  can't  say — they  've  got  good  blood  as 
well  as  bad,  when  it  comes  to  that.  My  daughter 
went  to  school  with  the  girl,  and  she  was  said  to  be, 
by  long  odds,  the  most  popular  member  of  her  class. 
She  graduated  last  spring,  and  people  tell  me  that 
she  has  turned  out  to  be  the  handsomest  young 
woman  in  Botetourt." 

"Like  the  mother?" 


THE   RETURN  TO   LIFE  283 

"No,  dark  and  tall,  with  those  snapping  blue  eyes 
of  her  grandmother's " 

So  Alice  was  no  longer  the  little  girl  in  short  white 
skirts,  outstanding  like  a  ballet  dancer's!  There  was 
a  pang  for  him  in  the  thought,  and  he  tried  in  vain 
to  accustom  himself  to  the  knowledge  that  she  would 
meet  him  to-night  as  a  woman,  not  as  a  child.  He 
remembered  the  morning  when  she  had  run  out, 
as  he  passed  up  the  staircase,  to  beg  him  to  come  in 
to  listen  to  her  music  lesson;  and  with  the  sound 
of  the  stumbling  scales  in  his  ears,  he  felt  again 
that  terrible  throbbing  of  his  pulses  and  the  dull 
weight  of  anguish  which  had  escaped  at  last  in  an 
outburst  of  bitterness. 

With  a  jolting  motion  the  train  drew  up  into 
the  little  station,  and  following  the  crowd  that 
pressed  through  the  door  of  the  car,  he  emerged 
presently  into  the  noisy  throng  of  Negro  drivers 
gathered  before  the  rusty  vehicles  which  were  waiting 
beside  the  narrow  pavement.  Pushing  aside  the 
gaily  decorated  whips  which  encircled  him  at  his 
approach,  he  turned,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
into  one  of  the  heavily  shaded  streets,  which  seemed 
to  his  awakened  memory  to  have  remained  unaltered 
.since  the  afternoon  upon  which  he  had  left  the  town 
almost  twenty  years  ago.  The  same  red  and  gold 
maples  stirred  gently  above  his  head;  the  same 
silent,  green-shuttered  houses  were  withdrawn  be- 
hind glossy  clusters  of  microphylla  rose-creepers. 
Even  the  same  shafts  of  sunshine  slanted  across 


284  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

the  roughly  paved  streets,  which  were  strewn  thickly 
with  yellowed  leaves.  It  was  to  Ordway  as  if  a 
pleasant  dream  had  descended  upon  the  place,  and 
had  kept  unchanged  the  particular  golden  stillness 
of  that  autumn  afternoon  when  he  had  last  seen  it. 
All  at  once  he  realised  that  what  Tappahannock 
needed  was  not  progress,  but  age;  and  he  saw  for 
the  first  time  that  the  mellowed  charm  of  Botetourt 
was  relieved  against  the  splendour  of  an  historic 
background.  Not  the  distinction  of  the  present, 
but  the  enchantment  of  the  past,  produced  this 
quality  of  atmosphere  into  which  the  thought  of 
Tappahannock  entered  like  a  vulgar  discord. 
The  dead,  not  the  living,  had  built  these  walls,  had 
paved  these  streets,  had  loved  and  fought  and 
starved  beneath  these  maples ;  and  it  was  the  memory 
of  such  solemn  things  that  steeped  the  little  town 
in  its  softening  haze  of  sentiment.  A  thrill  of 
pleasure,  more  intense  than  any  he  had  known 
for  months,  shot  through  his  heart,  and  the 
next  instant  he  acknowledged  with  a  sensation  of 
shame  that  he  was  returning,  not  only  to  his  people, 
but  to  his  class.  Was  this  all  that  experience,  that 
humiliation,  could  do  for  one — that  he  should  still 
find  satisfaction  in  the  refinements  of  habit,  in  the 
mere  external  pleasantness  of  life  ?  As  he  passed  the 
old  church  he  saw  that  the  sparrows  still  fluttered 
in  and  out  of  the  ivy,  which  was  full  of  twittering 
cries  like  a  gigantic  bird's  nest,  and  he  had  suddenly 
a  ghostly  feeling  as  if  he  were  a  moving  shadow  under 
shadowy  trees  and  unreal  shafts  of  sunlight.  A 


THE    RETURN   TO   LIFE  285 

moment  later  he  almost  held  his  breath  lest  the 
dark  old  church  and  the  dreamy  little  town  should 
vanish  before  his  eyes  and  leave  him  alone  in  the 
outer  space  of  shadows. 

Coming  presently  under  a  row  of  poplars  to  the 
street  in  which  stood  his  father's  house — a  square 
red  brick  building  with  white  Doric  columns  to 
the  portico — he  saw  with  a  shock  of  surprise  that 
the  funeral  carriages  were  standing  in  a  solemn  train 
for  many  blocks.  Until  that  moment  it  had  not 
occured  to  him  that  he  might  come  in  time  to  look 
on  the  dead  face  of  the  man  who  had  not  forgiven 
him  while  he  was  alive;  and  at  first  he  shivered  and 
shrank  back  as  if  hesitating  to  enter  the  door  that 
had  been  so  lately  closed  against  him.  An  old 
Negro  driver,  who  sat  on  the  curbing,  wiping  the 
broad  black  band  on  his  battered  silk  hat  with 
a  red  bandanna  handkerchief,  turned  to  speak  to 
him  with  mingled  sympathy  and  curiosity. 

"Ef'n  you  don'  hurry  up,  you'll  miss  de  bes'  er 
hit,  marster,"  he  remarked.  "Dey's  been  gwine  on 
a  pow'ful  long  time,  but  I  'se  been  a-lisenin'  wid  all 
my  years  en  I  ain'  hyearn  nairy  a  sh'ut  come  thoo' 
de  do'.  Lawd!  Lawd!  dey  ain'  mo'n  like  I  mo'n, 
caze  w'en  dey  buried  my  Salviny  I  set  up  sech  a 
sh'uttin'  dat  I  bu'st  two  er  my  spar  ribs  clean 
ter  pieces." 

Still  muttering  to  himself  he  fell  to  polishing  his 
old  top  hat  more  vigorously,  while  Ordway  quickened 
his  steps  with  an  effort,  and  entering  the  gate,  ascend- 
ed the  brick  walk  to  the  white  steps  of  the  portico. 


286  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

A  wide  black  streamer  hung  from  the  bell  handle, 
so  pushing  open  the  door,  which  gave  noiselessly 
before  him,  he  entered  softly  into  the  heavy  perfume 
of  flowers.  From  the  room  on  his  right,  which  he 
remembered  dimly  as  the  formal  drawing-room  in 
the  days  of  his  earliest  childhood,  he  heard  a  low 
voice  speaking  as  if  in  prayer;  and  looking  across 
the  threshold,  he  saw  a  group  of  black  robed  persons 
kneeling  in  the  faint  light  which  fell  through  the 
chinks  in  the  green  shutters.  The  intense  odour  of 
lilies  awoke  in  him  a  sharp  anguish,  which  had 
no  association  in  his  thoughts  with  his  father's 
death,  and  which  he  could  not  explain  until  the 
incidents  of  his  mother's  funeral  crowded,  one  by 
one,  into  his  memory.  The  scent  of  lilies  was  the 
scent  of  death  in  his  nostrils,  and  he  saw  again  the 
cool,  high-ceiled  room  in  the  midst  of  which  her 
coffin  had  stood,  and  through  the  open  windows 
the  wide  green  fields  in  which  spring  was  just  putting 
forth.  That  was  nearly  thirty  years  -ago,  yet  the 
emotion  he  felt  at  this  instant  was  less  for  his 
father  who  had  died  yesterday  than  for  his  mother 
whom  he  had  lost  while  he  was  still  a  child. 

At  his  entrance  no  one  had  observed  him,  and 
while  the  low  prayer  went  on,  he  stood  with  bowed 
head  searching  among  the  veiled  figures  about  the 
coffin  for  the  figure  of  his  wife.  Was  that  Lydia, 
he  wondered,  kneeling  there  in  her  mourning  gar- 
ments with  her  brow  hidden  in  her  clasped  hands? 
And  as  he  looked  at  her  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  had 
never  lifted  the  black  veil  which  she  had  lowered 


THE    RETURN   TO   LIFE  287 

over  her  face  at  their  last  parting.     Though  he  was 
outwardly    now    among    his    own    people,     though 
the  physical   distance  which   divided  him  from  his 
wife   and   children   was  barely   a   dozen   steps,   the 
loneliness  which  oppressed  him  was  like  the  loneliness 
of  the  prison ;   and  he  understood  that  his  real  home 
was  not  here,  but  in  Tappahannock — that  his  true 
kinship  was  with  the  labourers  whose  lives  he  had 
shared  and  whose  bitter  poverty   he  had  lessened. 
In  the  presence  of  death  he  was  conscious  of  the 
space,  the  luxury,  the  costly  funeral  wreaths  that 
surrounded    him;     and    these    external    refinements 
of  living  produced  in  him  a  sensation  of  shyness,  as 
if  he  had  no  longer  a  rightful  place  in  the  class  in 
which  he  had  been  born.     Against  his  will  he  grew 
ashamed  of  his  coarse    clothes   and    his    roughened 
hands;  and  with  this  burning  sense  of  humiliation 
a  wave   of  homesickness    for  Tappahannock   swept 
over    him — for    the    dusty    little    town,    with    its 
hot,   close    smells    and    for    the    blue    tent    of    sky 
which    was    visible    from    his     ivied     window     at 
Cedar    Hill.     Then    he    remembered,    with    a   pang, 
that  even  from  Tappahannock  he  had  been  cast  out. 
For  the  second  time  since  his  release  from  prison, 
he  felt  cowed    and   beaten,  like   an  animal   that   is 
driven   to   bay.     The    dead   man   in   his  coffin  was 
more  closely  woven  into  his  surroundings  than  was 
the  living  son  who  had  returned  to  his  inheritance. 
As  the  grave  faces  looked  back  at  him  at  the  end 
of  the   prayer,    he   realised  that  they   belonged   to 
branches,  near  or  distant,  of  the  Ordway  connections. 


288  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

With  the  first  glimpse  of  his  figure  in  the  doorway 
there  came  no  movement  of  recognition;  then  he 
observed  a  slight  start  of  surprise — or  was  it  dismay  ? 
He  knew  that  Lydia  had  seen  him  at  last,  though 
he  did  not  look  at  her.  It  appeared  to  him  suddenly 
that  his  return  was  an  insult  to  her  as  well  as  to  the 
dead  man  who  lay  there,  helpless  yet  majestic,  in 
the  centre  of  the  room.  Flight  seemed  to  him  at 
the  instant  the  only  amendment  in  his  power, 
and  he  had  made  an  impulsive  start  back  from  the 
threshold,  when  the  strained  hush  was  broken  by  a 
word  that  left  him  trembling  and  white  as  from  a  blow. 

"Father!"  cried  a  voice,  in  the  first  uncontrollable 
joy  of  recognition;  and  with  an  impetuous  rush 
through  the  crowd  that  surrounded  her,  Alice  threw 
herself  into  his  arms. 

A  mist  swam  before  his  eyes  and  he  lost  the  encirc- 
ling faces  in  a  blur  of  tears ;  but  as  she  clung  to  his 
breast  and  he.  held  her  close,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
fierce  joy  that  throbbed,  like  a  physical  pain,  in  his 
throat.  The  word  which  she  had  uttered  had  brought 
his  soul  up  from  the  abyss  as  surely  as  if  it  were  lifted 
by  the  hands  of  angels;  and  with  each  sobbing  breath 
of  happiness  she  drew,  he  felt  that  her  nature  was 
knit  more  firmly  into  his.  The  repulse  he  had  receiv- 
ed the  moment  before  was  forgotten,  and  while  he 
held  her  drawn  apart  in  the  doorway,  the  silence  of 
Lydia,  and  even  the  reproach  of  the  dead  man,  had 
ceased  to  affect  him.  In  that  breathless,  hysterical 
rush  to  his  embrace  Alice  saved  him  to-day  as  Emily's 
outstretched  hand  had  saved  him  three  years  before. 


THE    RETURN   TO   LIFE  289 

'"They  did  not  tell  me!  Oh,  why,  did  they  not 
tell  me?"  cried  the  girl,  lifting  her  head  from  his 
breast,  and  the  funeral  hush  that  shrouded  the  room 
could  not  keep  back  the  ecstasy  in  her  voice.  Even 
when  after  the  first  awkward  instant  the  others 
gathered  around  him,  nervous,  effusive,  friendly, 
Alice  still  clung  to  his  hands,  kissing  first  one  and 
then  the  other  and  then  both  together,  with  the 
exquisite  joyous  abandonment  of  a  child. 

Lydia  had  kissed  him,  weeping  softly  under  her 
long  black  veil,  and  hiding  her  pale,  lovely  face  the 
moment  afterwards  in  her  clasped  hands.  Dick,  his 
son,  had  touched  his  cheek  with  his  fresh  young 
mouth;  Richard  Ordway,  his  father's  brother,  had 
shaken  him  by  the  hand;  and  the  others,  one  and  all, 
kinsmen  and  kinswomen,  had  given  him  their  em- 
barrassed, yet  kindly,  welcome.  But  it  was  on 
Alice  that  his  eyes  rested,  while  he  felt  his  whole  being 
impelled  toward  her  in  a  recovered  rapture  that  was 
almost  one  of  worship.  In  her  dark  beauty,  with 
her  splendid  hair,  her  blue,  flashing  Ordway  eyes, 
and  her  lips  which  were  too  red  and  too  full  for  per- 
fection, she  appeared  to  him  the  one  vital  thing 
among  the  mourning  figures  in  this  house  of  death. 
Her  delight  still  ran  in  little  tremors  through  her 
limbs,  and  when  a  moment  later,  she  slipped  her 
hand  through  his  arm,  and  followed  Lydia  and  Richard 
Ordway  down  the  steps,  and  into  one  of  the  waiting 
carriages,  he  felt  that  her  bosom  quivered  with  the 
emotion  which  the  solemn  presence  of  his  father 
had  forced  back  from  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  II 
His  OWN  PLACE 

SOME  hours  later  when  he  sat  alone  in  his  room, 
he  told  himself  that  he  could  never  forget  the 
drive  home  from  the  cemetery  in  the  closed  carriage. 
Lydia  had  raised  her  veil  slightly,  as  if  in  a  desire 
for  air,  and  as  she  sat  with  her  head  resting  against 
the  lowered  blind,  he  could  trace  the  delicate,  pale 
lines  of  her  mouth  and  chin,  and  a  single  wisp 
of  her  ash  blond  hair  which  lay  heavily  upon  her 
forehead.  Not  once  had  she  spoken,  not  once 
had  she  met  his  eyes  of  her  own  accord,  and  he  had 
discovered  that  she  leaned  almost  desperately  upon 
the  iron  presence  of  Richard  Ordway.  Had  his  sin, 
indeed,  crushed  her  until  she  had  not  power  to  lift 
her  head?  he  asked  passionately,  with  a  sharper 
remorse  than  he  had  ever  felt. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  were  able  to  come  in  time," 
Richard  Ordway  remarked  in  his  cold,  even  voice; 
and  after  this  the  rattle  of  the  wheels  on  the  cobble- 
stones in  the  street  was  the  only  sound  which  broke 
the  death-like  stillness  in  which  they  sat.  No,  he 
could  never  forget  it,  nor  could  he  forget  the  bewilder- 
ing effect  of  the  sunshine  when  they  opened  the 
carriage  door.  Beside  the  curbing  a  few  idle  Negroes 
were  left  of  the  crowd  that  had  gathered  to  watch 

290 


HIS   OWN   PLACE  291 

the  coffin  borne  through  the  gate,  and  the  pavement 
was  thick  with  dust,  as  if  many  hurrying  feet  had 
tramped  by  since  the  funeral  had  passed.  As  they 
entered  the  house  the  scent  of  lilies  struck  him 
afresh  with  all  the  agony  of  its  associations.  The 
shutters  were  still  closed,  the  chairs  were  still  ar- 
ranged in  their  solemn  circle,  the  streamer  of  crape, 
hurriedly  untied  from  the  bell  handle,  still  lay  where 
it  had  been  thrown  on  the  library  table;  and  as  he 
crossed  the  threshold,  he  trod  upon  some  fading 
lilies  which  had  fallen,  unnoticed,  from  a  funeral 
wreath.  Then,  in  the  dining-room ,  Richard  Ordway 
poured  out  a  glass  of  whiskey,  and  in  the  very  instant 
when  he  was  about  to  raise  it  to  his  lips,  he  put  it 
hurriedly  down  and  pushed  the  decanter  aside  with 
an  embarrassed  and  furtive  movement. 

"Do  you  feel  the  need  of  a  cup  of  coffee,  Daniel?" 
he  asked  in  a  pleasant,  conciliatory  tone,  "or  will 
you  have  only  a  glass  of  seltzer?" 

"I  am  not  thirsty,  thank  you,"  Daniel  responded 
shortly,  and  the  next  moment  he  asked  Alice  to  show 
him  the  room  in  which  he  would  stay. 

With  laughing  eagerness  she  led  him  up  the  great 
staircase  to  the  chamber  in  which  he  had  slept  as  a 
boy. 

"  It 's  just  next  to  Dick's,"  she  said,  "and  mother's 
and  mine  are  directly  across  the  hall.  At  first  we 
thought  of  putting  you  in  the  red  guest-room,  but 
that  's  only  for  visitors,  so  we  knew  you  would  be 
sure  to  like  this  better." 

"Yes,    I'll  like  this  better,"   he   responded,    and 


292  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

then  as  she  would  have  moved  away,  he  caught  her, 
with  a  gesture  of  anguish,  back  to  his  arms. 

"You  remember  me,  Alice,  my  child?  you  have 
not  forgotten  me?" 

She  laughed  merrily,  biting  her  full  red  lips  the 
moment  afterward  to  check  the  sound. 

"Why,  how  funny  of  you!  I  was  quite  a  big  girl — 
don't  you  remember? — when  you  went  away.  It 
was  so  dull  afterwards  that  I  cried  for  days,  and  that 
was  why  I  was  so  overjoyed  when  mamma  told 
me  you  would  come  back.  It  was  never  dull  when 
you  lived  at  home  with  us,  because  you  would  always 
take  me  to  the  park  or  the  circus  whenever  I  grew 
tired  of  dolls.  Nobody  did  that  after  you  went  away 
and  I  used  to  cry  and  kick  sometimes  thinking  that 
they  would  tell  you  and  bring  you  back." 

"And  you  remembered  me  chiefly  because  of  the 
park  and  the  circus?"  he  asked,  smiling  for  joy,  as 
he  kissed  her  hand  which  lay  on  his  sleeve. 

"Oh,  I  never  forget  anything,  you  know.  Mamma 
even  says  that  about  me.  I  remember  my  first 
nurse  and  the  baker's  boy  with  red  cheeks  who  used 
to  bring  me  pink  cakes  when  I  was  three  years  old. 
No,  I  never  forget — I  never  forget,"  she  repeated 
with  vehemence. 

Animation  had  kindled  her  features  into  a  beauty 
of  colour  which  made  her  eyes  bluer  and  brighter 
and  softened  the  too  intense  contrast  of  her  full, 
red  lips. 

"All  these  years  I  've  hoped  that  you  would  come 
back  and  that  things  would  change,"  she  said  im- 


HIS   OWN   PLACE  293 

pulsively,  her  words  tripping  rapidly  over  one 
another.  "Everything  is  so  dreadfully  grave  and 
solemn  here.  Grandfather  hated  noise  so  that  he 
would  hardly  let  me  laugh  if  he  was  in  the  house. 
Then  mamma's  health  is  wrecked,  and  she  lies  always 
on  the  sofa,  and  never  goes  out  except  for  a  drive 
sometimes  when  it  is  fair." 

"Mamma's  health  is  wrecked?"  he  repeated  in- 
quiringly, as  she  paused. 

"Oh,  that 's  what  everybody  says  about  her — her 
health  is  wrecked.  And  Uncle  Richard  is  hardly 
any  better,  for  he  has  a  wife  whose  health  is  wrecked 
also.  And  Dick — he  is  n't  sick,  but  he  might  as  well 
be,  he  is  so  dull  and  plodding  and  over  nice " 

"And  you  Alice?" 

"I?  Oh,  I  'm  not  dull,  but  I  'm  unhappy — awfully 
— you'll  find  that  out.  I  like  fun  and  pretty  clothes 
and  new  people  and  strange  places.  I  want  to 
marry  and  have  a  home  of  my  own  and  a  lot  of  rings 
like  mamma's,  and  a  carriage  with  two  men  on  the 
box,  and  to  go  to  Europe  to  buy  things  whenever 
I  please.  That 's  the  way  Molly  Burridge  does  and 
she  was  only  two  classes  ahead  of  me.  How  rough 
your  hands  are,  papa,  and  what  a  funny  kind  of 
shirt  you  have  on.  Do  people  dress  like  that  where 
you  came  from?  Well,  I  don't  like  it,  so  you  11  have 
to  change." 

She  had  gone  out  at  last,  forgetting  to  walk  properly 
in  her  mourning  garments,  tripping  into  a  run  on 
the  threshold,  and  then  checking  herself  with  a  prim, 
mocking  look  over  her  shoulder.  Not  until  the  door 


294  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

had  closed  with  a  slam  behind  her  black  skirt,  did 
Ordway's  gaze  turn  from  following  her  and  fix  itself 
on  the  long  mirror  between  the  windows,  in  which 
he  could  see,  as  Alice  had  seen  the  moment  before, 
his  roughened  hands,  his  carelessly  trimmed  hair 
and  his  common  clothes.  He  was  dressed  as  the 
labourers  dressed  on  Sundays  in  Tappahannock ; 
though,  he  remembered  now,  that  in  that  crude 
little  town  he  had  been  conspicuous  for  the  neatness, 
almost  the  jauntiness,  of  his  attire.  As  he  laid  out 
presently  on  the  bed  his  few  poor  belongings,  he 
told  himself,  with  determination,  that  for  Alice's 
sake  even  this  must  be  changed.  He  was  no  longer 
of  the  class  of  Baxter,  of  Banks,  of  Mrs.  Twine. 
All  that  was  over,  and  he  must  return  now  into  the 
world  in  which  his  wife  and  his  children  had  kept  a 
place.  To  do  Alice  honour — at  least  not  to  do 
her  further  shame — would  become  from  this  day, 
he  realised,  the  controlling  motive  of  his  life.  Then, 
as  he  looked  down  at  the  coarse,  unshapely  gar- 
ments upon  the  delicate  counterpane,  he  knew  that 
Daniel  Smith  and  Daniel  Ordway  were  now  parted 
forever. 

He  was  still  holding  one  of  the  rough  blue  shirts 
in  his  hand,  when  a  servant  entered  to  inquire  if 
there  was  anything  that  he  might  need.  The  man, 
a  bright  young  mulatto,  was  not  one  of  the  old  family 
slaves;  and  while  he  waited,  alert  and  intelligent, 
upon  the  threshold,  Ordway  was  seized  by  a  nervous 
feeling  that  he  was  regarded  with  curiosity  and 
suspicion  by  the  black  rolling  eyes. 


HIS   OWN   PLACE  295 

"Where  is  uncle  Boaz?  He  used  to  wait  upon 
me,"  he  asked. 

"He's  daid,  suh.  He  drapped  down  daid  right 
on  de  do'  step." 

"And  Aunt  Mirandy?" 

"She  's  daid,   too,   en'   I  'se  her   chile." 

"Oh,  you  are,  are  you?"  said  Ordway,  and  he  had 
again  the  sensation  that  he  was  watched  through 
inquisitive  eyes.  "That  is  all  now,"  he  added 
presently,  "you  may  go,"  and  it  was  with  a  long 
breath  of  relief  that  he  saw  the  door  close  after  the 
figure  of  Aunt  Mirandy 's  son. 

When  a  little  later  he  dressed  himself  and  went 
out  into  the  hall,  he  found,  to  his  annoyance,  that  he 
walked  with  a  cautious  and  timid  step  like  that 
of  a  labourer  who  has  stumbled  by  accident  into 
surroundings  of  luxury.  As  he  descended  the  wide 
curving  staircase,  with  his  hand  on  the  mahogany 
balustrade,  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  seemed  to 
reverberate  disagreeably  through  the  awful  funereal 
silence  in  which  he  moved.  If  he  could  only 
hear  Alice's  laugh,  Dick's  whistle,  or  even  the 
garrulous  flow  of  the  Negro  voices  that  he  had  listened 
to  in  his  childhood.  With  a  pang  he  recalled  that 
Uncle  Boaz  was  dead,  and  his  heart  swelled  as  he 
remembered  how  often  he  had  passed  up  and  down 
this  same  staircase  on  the  old  servant's  shoulder. 
At  that  age  he  had  felt  no  awe  of  the  shining  empti- 
ness and  the  oppressive  silence.  Then  he  had  believed 
himself  to  be  master  of  all  at  which  he  looked ;  now  he 
was  conscious  of  that  complete  detachment  from  his 


296  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

surroundings  which  produces  almost  a  sense  of  the 
actual  separation  of  soul  and  body. 

Reaching  the  hall  below,,  he  found  that  some 
hurried  attempt  had  been  made  to  banish  or  to 
conceal  the  remaining  signs  of  the  funeral.  The 
doors  and  windows  were  open,  the  shreds  of  crape 
had  disappeared  from  the  carpet,  and  the  fading 
lilies  had  been  swept  out  upon  the  graveled  walk 
in  the  yard.  Upon  entering  the  library,  which 
invited  him  by  its  rows  of  calf -bound  books,  he 
discovered  that  Richard  Ordway  was  patiently 
awaiting  him  in  the  large  red  leather  chair  which 
had  once  been  the  favourite  seat  of  his  father. 

"  Before  I  go  home,  I  think  it  better  to  have  a  little 
talk  with  you,  Daniel,"  began  the  old  man,  as  he 
motioned  to  a  sofa  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Turkish 
rug  before  the  open  grate.  "It  has  been  a  peculiar 
satisfaction  to  me  to  feel  that  I  was  able  to  bring 
you  back  in  time  for  the  service." 

"I  came,"  replied  Daniel  slowly,  "as  soon  as  I 
received  your  telegram."  He  hesitated  an  instant 
and  then  went  on  in  the  same  quiet  tone  in  which 
the  other  had  spoken,  "Do  you  think,  though,  that 
he  would  have  wished  me  to  come  at  all?" 

After  folding  the  newspaper  which  he  had  held 
in  his  hand,  Richard  laid  it,  with  a  courteous  gesture 
upon  the  table  beside  him.  As  he  sat  there  with 
his  long  limbs  outstretched  and  relaxed,  and  his 
handsome,  severe  profile  resting  against  the  leather 
back  of  his  chair,  the  younger  man  was  impressed, 
as  if  for  the  first  time,  by  the  curious  mixture  of 


HIS   OWN   PLACE  297 

strength  and  refinement  in  his  features.  He  was 
not  only  a  cleverer  man  than  his  brother  had  been, 
he  was  gentler,  smoother,  more  distinguished  on 
every  side.  In  spite  of  his  reserve,  it  was  evident 
that  he  had  wished  to  be  kind  —  that  he  wished 
it  still;  yet  this  kindness  was  so  removed  from 
the  ordinary  impulse  of  humanity  that  it  appeared 
to  his  nephew  to  be  in  a  way  as  detached  and  im- 
personal as  an  abstract  virtue.  The  very  lines 
of  his  face  were  drawn  with  the  precision,  the  finality, 
of  a  geometrical  figure.  To  imagine  that  they  could 
melt  into  tenderness  was  as  impossible  as  to  conceive 
of  their  finally  crumbling  into  dust. 

"He  would  have  wished  it  —  he  did  wish  it,"  he 
said,  after  a  minute.  "I  talked  with  him  only  a 
few  hours  before  his  death,  and  he  told  me  then  that 
it  was  necessary  to  send  for  you  —  that  he  felt  that 
he  had  neglected  his  duty  in  not  bringing  you  home 
immediately  after  your  release.  He  saw  at  last 
that  it  would  have  been  far  better  to  have  acted  as  I 
strongly  advised  at  the  time." 

"It  was  his  desire,  then,  that  I  should  return?" 
asked  Daniel,  while  a  stinging  moisture  rose  to  his 
eyes  at  the  thought  that  he  had  not  looked  once  upon 
the  face  of  the  dead  man.  "I  wish  I  had  known." 

A  slight  surprise  showed  in  the  other's  gesture  of 
response,  and  he  glanced  hastily  away  as  he  might 
have  done  had  he  chanced  to  surprise  his  nephew 
while  he  was  still  without  his  boots  or  his  shirt. 

"  I  think  he  realised  before  he  died  that  the  individ- 
ual has  no  right  to  place  his  personal  pride  above 


298  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

the  family  tie,"  he  resumed  quietly,  ignoring  the 
indecency  of  emotion  as  he  would  have  ignored, 
probably,  the  unclothed  body.  "I  had  said  much 
the  same  thing  to  him  eight  years  ago,  when  I  told 
him  that  he  would  realise  before  his  death  that  he 
was  not  morally  free  to  act  as  he  had  done  with 
regard  to  you.  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  observed 
in  his  trained,  legal  voice,  "the  family  is,  after  all, 
the  social  unit,  and  each  member  is  as  closely  related 
as  the  eye  to  the  ear  or  the  right  arm  to  the  left. 
It  is  illogical  to  speak  of  denying  one's  flesh  and 
blood,  for  it  can't  be  done." 

So  this  was  why  they  had  received  him.  He 
turned  his  head  away,  and  his  gaze  rested  upon  the 
boughs  of  the  great  golden  poplar  beyond  the  window. 

"It  is  understood,  then,"  he  asked  "that  I  am  to 
come  back  —  back  to  this  house  to  live?" 

When  he  had  finished,  but  not  until  then,  Richard 
Ordway  looked  at  him  again  with  his  dry,  conven- 
tional kindness.  "  If  you  are  free,"  he  began,  altering 
the  word  immediately  lest  it  should  suggest  painful 
associations  to  his  companion's  mind,  "I  mean  if 
you  have  no  other  binding  engagements,  no  decided 
plans  for  the  future." 

"No,  I  have  made  no  other  plans.  I  was  working 
as  a  book-keeper  in  a  tobacco  warehouse  in  Tappa- 
hannock." 

"As  a  book-keeper?"  repeated  Richard,  as  he 
glanced  down  inquiringly  at  the  other's  hands. 

"Oh,  I  worked  sometimes  out  of  doors,  but  the 
position  I  held  was  that  of  confidential  clerk." 


HIS   OWN   PLACE  299 

The  old  man  nodded  amiably,  accepting  the  expla- 
nation with  a  readiness  for  which  the  other  was  not 
prepared.  "I  was  about  to  offer  you  some  legal 
work  in  my  office,"  he  remarked.  "Dry  and  musty 
stuff,  I  fear  it  is,  but  it's  better — isn'  t  it? — for  a  man 
to  have  some  kind  of  occupation " 

Though  the  words  were  uttered  pleasantly  enough, 
it  seemed  to  the  younger  man  that  the  concluding 
and  significant  phrase  was  left  unspoken.     "Some 
kind  of  occupation  to  keep  you  out  of   tempation" 
was  what  Richard  had  meant  to  say — what  he  had 
withheld,  from  consideration,  if  not  from  humanity. 
While  the  horror  of  the  whole  situation  closed  over 
Daniel  like  a  mental  darkness,  he  remembered  the 
sensitive    shrinking    of    Lydia   on    the    drive  home, 
the  prying,  inquisitive  eyes  of  the  mulatto  servant, 
the  furtive  withdrawal  of  the  whiskey  by  the  man 
who    sat   opposite  to  him.     With  all  its  attending 
humiliation  and  despair,  there  rushed  upon  him  the 
knowledge  that  by  the  people  of  his  own  household 
he  was  regarded  still  as  a  creature  to  be  restrained 
and  protected  at  every  instant.     Though  outwardly 
they  had  received  him,  instinctively  they  had  re- 
pulsed him.     The  thing  which  stood  between  them 
and  himself  was  neither  of  their  making  nor  of  his. 
It  belonged  to  their  very  nature  and  was  woven  in 
with  their  inner  fibre.     It  was  a  creation,  not  of  the 
individual,  but  of  the  race,  and  the  law  by  which 
it  existed  was  rooted  deep  in  the  racial  structure. 
Tradition,     inheritance,     instinct — these     were     the 
barriers  through  which  he  had  broken  and  which  had 


300  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

closed  like  the  impenetrable  sea-gates  behind  him. 
Though  he  were  to  live  on  day  by  day  as  a  saint 
among  them,  they  could  never  forget:  though  he 
were  to  shed  his  heart's  blood  for  them,  they  would 
never  believe.  To  convince  them  of  his  sincerity 
was  more  hopeless,  he  understood,  than  to  reanimate 
their  affection.  In  their  very  forgiveness  they  had 
not  ceased  to  condemn  him,  and  in  the  shelter  which 
they  offered  him  there  would  be  always  a  hidden 
restraint.  With  the  thought  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  stifling  in  the  closeness  of  the  atmosphere, 
that  he  must  break  away  again,  that  he  must  find 
air  and  freedom,  though  it  cost  him  all  else  besides. 
The  possibility  of  his  own  weakness  seemed  created 
in  him  by  their  acceptance  of  it ;  and  he  felt  suddenly 
a  terror  lest  the  knowledge  of  their  suspicion  should 
drive  him  to  justify  it  by  his  future  in  Botetourt. 

"Yes,  it  is  better  for  me  to  work,"  he  said  aloud. 
"I  hope  that  I  shall  be  able  to  make  myself  of  some 
small  use  in  your  office." 

"There's  no  doubt  of  that,  I'm  sure,"  responded 
Richard,  in  his  friendliest  tone. 

"It  is  taken  for  granted,  then,  that  I  shall  live 
on  here  with  my  wife  and  children?" 

"We  have  decided  that  it  is  best.  But  as  for 
your  wife,  you  must  remember  that  she  is  very 
much  of  an  invalid.  Do  not  forget  that  she  has  had 
a  sad — a  most  tragic  life." 

"I  promise  you  that  I  shall  not  forget  it — make 
your  mind  easy." 

After  this  it   seemed  to   Daniel   that  there  was 


HIS   OWN   PLACE  301 

nothing  further  to  be  said;  but  before  rising  from 
his  chair,  the  old  man  sat  for  a  moment  with  his 
thin  lips  tightly  folded  and  a  troubled  frown  ruffling 
his  forehead.  In  the  dim  twilight  the  profile  out- 
lined against  the  leather  chair  appeared  to  have 
been  ground  rather  than  roughly  hewn  out  of  granite. 

"About  the  disposition  of  the  estate,  there  were 
some  changes  made  shortly  before  your  father's 
death,"  remarked  Richard  presently.  ''In  the  will 
itself  you  were  not  mentioned;  a  provision  was 
made  for  your  wife  and  the  bulk  of  the  property 
left  to  your  two  children.  But  in  a  codicil,  which  was 
added  the  day  before  your  father  died,  he  directed 
that  you  should  be  given  a  life  interest  in  the  house 
as  well  as  in  investments  to  the  amount  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  This  is  to  be  paid  you 
in  the  form  of  a  quarterly  allowance,  which  will 
yield  you  a  personal  income  of  about  six  thousand 
a  year." 

"I  understand,"  replied  the  younger  man,  with- 
out emotion,  almost  without  surprise.  At  the 
moment  he  was  wondering  by  what  name  his  father 
had  alluded  to  him  in  his  will.  Had  he  spoken  of 
him  as  "my  son,"  or  merely  as  "Daniel  Ordway"? 

"That  is  all,  I  think,"  remarked  the  other,  with  a 
movement  which  expressed,  in  spite  of  him,  a  sensa- 
tion of  relief.  With  a  smile  which  appeared  to  be 
little  more  than  a  muscular  contraction  of  his  mouth, 
he  held  out  his  hand  and  stood  for  a  moment,  vainly 
searching  for  a  phrase  or  a  word  that  would  fit  the 
delicate  requirements  of  the  occasion. 


302  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"  Well,  I  shall  never  cease  to  be  thankful  that  you 
were  with  us  at  the  cemetery,"  he  said  at  last  in  a 
tone  which  was  a  patent  admission  that  he  had 
failed.  Then,  with  a  kindly  inclination  of  his  head, 
he  released  the  hand  he  held  and  passed  at  his  rapid, 
yet  dignified  step  out  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  OUTWARD  PATTERN 

THE  front  door  had  hardly  closed  when  a  breath 
of  freshness  blew  into  the  library  with  the  entrance 
of  Alice,  and  a  moment  afterwards  the  butler  rolled 
back  the  mahogany  doors  of  the  dining-room  and 
they  saw  the  lighted  candles  and  the  chrysanthe- 
mums upon  the  dinner  table. 

"We  hardly  ever  dress,"  said  Alice,  slipping  her 
hand  through  his  arm,  "I  wish  we  did." 

"Well,  if  you  11  only  pardon  these  clothes  to-night 
I  '11  promise  to  call  on  the  tailor  before  breakfast," 
he  returned,  smiling,  conscious  that  he  watched 
in  anxiety  lest  the  look  of  delight  in  his  presence 
should  vanish  from  her  face. 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  now,  because  we  're  in  the 
deepest  grief — are  n't  we  ? — and  mamma  is  n't  coming 
down.  She  wants  to  see  you,  by  the  way,  just  for  a 
minute  when  you  go  upstairs.  It  is  to  be  just  for  a 
minute,  I  was  to  be  very  particular  about  that,  as 
she  is  broken  down.  I  wonder  why  they  have  put 
so  many  covers.  There  is  nobody  but  you  and  Dick. 
I  asked  Uncle  Richard,  but  he  said  that  he  would  n't 
stay.  It 's  just  as  well  he  did  n't — he  's  so  dreadfully 
dull,  isn't  he,  papa?" 

"All  I  wish  is  that  I  were  dull  in  Uncle  Richard's 
3°3 


3o4  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

way,"  remarked  Dick,  with  his  boyish  air  of  superior- 
ity, "I'd  be  the  greatest  lawyer  in  the  state  then, 
when  my  turn  came.0 

"And  you'd  be  even  more  tiresome  than  you 
are  now,"  retorted  the  girl  with  a  flash  of  irritation 
which  brought  out  three  fine,  nervous  wrinkles 
on  her  delicate  forehead. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  have  your  temper  anyway," 
commented  Dick  imperturbably,  as  he  ate  his 
soup.  "Do  you  remember,  papa,  how  Alice 
used  to  bite  and  scratch  as  a  baby?  She  'd  like 
to  behave  exactly  that  way  now  if  she  weren't 
so  tall." 

"Oh,  I  know  Alice  better  than  you  do,"  said  Ord- 
way,  in  a  voice  which  he  tried  to  make  cheerful. 
The  girl  sat  on  his  right,  and  while  she  choked 
back  her  anger,  he  reached  out  and  catching  her 
hand,  held  it  against  his  cheek.  "We  stand  to- 
gether, Alice  and  I,"  he  said  softly — "Alice  and  I." 

As  he  repeated  the  words  a  wave  of  joy  rose  in  his 
heart,  submerging  the  disappointment,  the  bitterness, 
the  hard  despair,  of  the  last  few  hours.  Here  also, 
as  well  as  in  Tappahannock,  he  found  awaiting  him 
his  appointed  task. 

Dick  laughed  pleasantly,  preserving  always  the 
unshakable  self-possession  which  reminded  his  father 
of  Richard  Ordway.  He  was  a  good  boy,  Daniel 
knew,  upright,  honest,  manly,  all  the  things  which 
his  grandfather  and  his  great-grandfather  had  been 
before  him. 

you  '11  have  to  stand  with  Geoffrey  Heath," 


THE    OUTWARD   PATTERN  305 

he  said  jestingly,  "and,  by  Jove,  I  don't  think  I'd 
care  for  his  company." 

"Geoffrey  Heath?"  repeated  Ordway  inquiringly, 
with  his  eyes  on  his  daughter,  who  sat  silent  and 
angry,  biting  her  lower  lip.  Her  mouth,  which  he 
had  soon  discovered  to  be  her  least  perfect  feature, 
was  at  the  same  time  her  most  expressive  one.  At 
her  slightest  change  of  mood,  he  watched  it  tremble 
into  a  smile  or  a  frown,  and  from  a  distance  it  was 
plainly  the  first  thing  one  noticed  about  her  face. 
Now,  as  she  sat  there,  with  her  eyes  on  her  plate, 
her  vivid  lips  showed  like  a  splash  of  carmine  in 
the  lustreless  pallor  of  her  skin. 

"Oh,  he's  one  of  Alice's  chums,"  returned  Dick 
with  his  merciless  youthful  sneer,  "she  has  a  pretty 
lot  of  them,  too,  though  he  is  by  long  odds  the 
worst." 

"Well,  he's  rich  enough  anyway,"  protested  Alice 
defiantly,  "he  keeps  beautiful  horses  and  sends  me 
boxes  of  candy,  and  I  don't  care  a  bit  for  the  rest/1 

"Who  is  he,  by  the  way?"  asked  Daniel.  "There 
was  a  family  of  Heaths  who  lived  near  us  in  the 
country  when  I  was  a  boy.  Is  he  one  of  these?" 

"He  's  the  son  of  old  Rupert  Heath,  who  made  a 
million  out  of  some  panic  in  stocks.  Uncle  Richard 
says  the  father  was  all  right,  but  he  's  tried  his  best  to 
break  up  Alice's  craze  about  Geoffrey.  But  let  her 
once  get  her  nose  to  the  wind  and  nobody  can  do 
anything  with  her." 

"Well,  I  can,  can't  I,  darling?"  asked  Ordway, 
smiling  in  spite  of  a  jealous  pang.  The  appeal  of  the 


306  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

girl  to  him  was  like  the  appeal  of  the  finer  part  of  his 
own  nature.  Her  temptations  he  recognised  as 
the  old  familiar  temptations  of  his  youth,  and  the 
kinship  between  them  seemed  at  the  moment  some- 
thing deeper  and  more  enduring  than  the  tie  of  blood. 
Yet  the  thought  that  she  was  his  daughter  awoke 
in  him  a  gratitude  that  was  almost  as  acute  as  pain. 
The  emptiness  of  his  life  was  filled  suddenly  to  over- 
flowing, and  he  felt  again  that  he  had  found  here 
as  he  had  found  at  Tappahannock  both  his  mission 
and  his  reward. 

When  dinner  was  over  he  left  the  boy  and  girl  in 
the  library  and  went  slowly,  and  with  a  nervous 
hesitation,  upstairs  to  the  room  in  which  Lydia  was 
lying  on  her  couch,  with  a  flower- decked  tray  upon 
the  little  inlaid  table  beside  her.  As  he  entered 
the  room  something  in  the  luxurious  atmosphere — 
in  the  amber  satin  curtains,  the  white  bearskin 
rugs,  the  shining  mirrors  between  the  windows — re- 
called the  early  years  of  his  marriage,  and  as  he 
remembered  them,  he  realised  for  the  first  time  the 
immensity  of  the  change  which  divided  his  present 
existence  from  his  past.  The  time  had  been  when  he 
could  not  separate  his  inner  life  from  his  surroundings, 
and  with  the  thought  he  saw  in  his  memory  the  bare 
cleanliness  of  the  blue  guest-room  at  Cedar  Hill — 
with  its  simple  white  bed,  its  rag  carpet,  its  faded 
sampler  worked  in  blue  worsteds.  That  place  had 
become  as  a  sanctuary  to  him  now,  for  it  was  there 
that  he  had  known  his  most  perfect  peace,  his  com- 
pletest  reconciliation  with  God. 


THE   OUTWARD   PATTERN  307 

As  he  entered  the  room  Lydia  raised  herself  slightly 
upon  her  elbow,  and  without  turning  her  head, 
nervously  pushed  back  a  white  silk  shawl  which  she 
had  thrown  over  her  knees.  A  lamp  with  an  amber 
shade  cast  its  light  on  her  averted  profile,  and  he 
noticed  that  its  perfect  outline,  its  serene  loveliness, 
was  untouched  by  suffering.  Already  he  had  dis- 
covered those  almost  imperceptible  furrows  between 
Alice's  eyebrows,  but  when  Lydia  looked  up  at  him  at 
last,  he  saw  that  her  beautiful  forehead,  under  its 
parting  of  ash  blond  hair,  was  as  smooth  as  a  child's. 
Was  it  merely  the  Madonna-like  arrangement  of  her 
hair,  after  all,  he  wondered,  not  without  bitterness, 
that  had  bestowed  upon  her  that  appealing  expression 
of  in j tired  innocence? 

"  You  wished  to  speak  to  me,  Alice  said,"  he  began 
with  an  awkward  gesture,  acutely  conscious,  as  he 
stood  there,  of  the  amber  light  in  the  room,  of  the 
shining  waves  of  her  hair,  of  the  delicate  perfume 
which  floated  from  the  gold-topped  boxes  upon  her 
dressing-table.  An  oval  mirror  above  the  mantel 
gave  back  to  him  the  reflection  of  his  own  roughly 
clad  figure,  and  the  violent  contrast  between  himself 
and  his  surroundings  stung  him  into  a  sense  of  humili- 
ation that  was  like  a  physical  smart. 

"I  thought  it  better  to  speak  to  you  —  Uncle 

Richard  and  Dick  advised  me  to "  she  broke  off 

in  a  gentle  confusion,  lifting  her  lovely,  pensive  eyes 
for  the  first  time  to  his  face. 

"Of  course  it  is  better,  Lydia,"  he  answered 
gravely.  "You  must  let  me  know  what  you  wish  — 


3o8  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

you  must  tell  me  quite  frankly  just  what  you  would 
rather  that  I  should  do " 

The  look  of  gratitude  in  her  face  gave  him  a  sudden 
inexplicable  pang. 

44 1  am  hardly  more  than  an  invalid,"  she  said  in  a 
voice  that  had  grown  firm  and  sweet,  "  Uncle  Richard 
will  tell  you " 

Her  reliance  upon  Richard  Ordway  aroused  in  him 
a  passion  of  resentment,  and  for  an  instant  the 
primitive  man  in  him  battled  hotly  against  the 
renunciation  his  lips  had  made. 

44 1  know,  I  understand,"  he  said  hurriedly  at  last. 
44 1  appreciate  it  all  and  I  shall  do  whatever  is  in  my 
power  to  make  it  easier  for  you."  As  he  looked  at 
her  bowed  head  a  wave  of  remorse  rose  in  his  breast 
and  swept  down,  one  by  one,  the  impulses  of  anger, 
of  pride,  of  self-righteousness.  4'O  my  dear,  my 
dear,  don't  you  think  I  know  what  I  have  done  to 
you?"  he  asked,  and  going  a  step  toward  her,  he  fell 
on  his  knees  beside  the  couch  and  kissed  passionately 
the  hand  that  lay  in  her  lap.  "Don't  you  think 
I  know  that  I  have  ruined  your  life?" 

For  a  moment  her  eyes  dwelt  thoughtfully  upon 
his,  and  she  let  her  hand  lie  still  beneath  his  remorse- 
ful kisses,  until  her  withdrawal  of  it  had  lost  any 
appearance  of  haste  or  of  discourtesy. 

44  Then  you  will  not  object  to  my  living  on  in  this 
way?  You  will  not  seek  to  change  anything?  You 
wjll "  She  hesitated  and  broke  off,  not  impul- 
sively, but  with  the  same  clear,  sweet  voice  in  which 
she  had  put  her  question. 


THE    OUTWARD   PATTERN  309 

Lifting  his  head,  he  looked  up  at  her  from  his  knees, 
and  the  dumb  loneliness  in  his  eyes  caused  her  at  last 
to  drop  her  own  to  the  rug  upon  which  he  knelt. 

"If  you  will  only  let  me  care  for  you  —  serve  you 
—  work  for  you,"  he  implored  brokenly.  "If  you 
will  only  let  me  make  up,  however  poorly,  something 
of  what  you  have  suffer ed." 

A  vague  discomfort,  produced  in  her  by  the  in- 
tensity of  his  gaze,  moved  her  to  draw  slightly  away 
from  him,  while  she  turned  restlessly  on  her  pillows. 
At  the  first  shade  of  perplexity,  of  annoyance,  that 
showed  in  her  face,  he  felt,  with  a  terrible  power  of 
intuition,  that  she  was  seeking  in  vain  to  estimate 
each  of  his  heartbroken  words  at  its  full  value  — 
to  read  calmly  by  the  light  of  experience  the  passion 
for  atonement  to  which  his  lips  had  tried  hopelessly 
to  give  expression.  The  wall  of  personality  rose 
like  a  visible  object  between  them.  He  might  beat 
against  it  in  desperation  until  his  strength  was  gone, 
yet  he  knew  that  it  would  remain  forever  impene- 
trable, and  through  its  thickness  there  would  pass 
only  the  loud,  unmeaning  sound  of  each  other's 
voice. 

"  Have  you  lost  all  love  for  me,  Lydia?"  he  asked. 
"  Have  you  even  forgotten  that  I  am  the  father  of 
your  children?" 

As  soon  as  his  words  were  uttered,  he  stumbled 
to  his  feet,  horrified  by  the  effect  upon  her.  A  change 
that  was  like  a  spasm  of  physical  nausea  had  shaken 
her  limbs,  and  he  felt  rather  than  saw  that  she  had 
shrunk  from  him,  convulsed  and  quivering,  until 


3io  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

she  was  crushed  powerless  against  the  back  of  the 
sofa  on  which  she  lay.  Her  whole  attitude,  he  rea- 
lised, was  the  result,  not  of  a  moral  judgment,  but 
of  a  purely  physical  antipathy.  Her  horror  of  him 
had  become  instinctive,  and  she  was  no  more  respon- 
sible for  its  existence  than  a  child  is  responsible  for 
the  dread  aroused  in  it  by  the  goblins  of  nursery 
rhymes.  His  life  as  a  convict  had  not  only  un- 
classed  him  in  her  eyes,  it  had  put  him  entirely  out- 
side and  below  the  ordinary  relations  of  human 
beings.  To  his  wife  he  must  remain  forever  an 
object  of  pity,  perhaps,  but  of  intense  loathing  and 
fear  also. 

The  wave  of  remorse  turned  to  bitterness  on  his 
lips,  and  all  the  tenderer  emotions  he  had  felt  when 
he  knelt  by  her  side  —  the  self-reproach,  the  spiritual 
yearning,  the  passion  for  goodness,  all  these  were 
extinguished  in  the  sense  of  desolation  which  swept 
over  him. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said  coldly,  "I  shall  not 
touch  you." 

"  It  was  nothing — a  moment's  pain,"  she  answered, 
in  a  wistful,  apologetic  voice. 

She  was  playing  nervously  with  the  fringe  of  the 
silk  shawl,  and  he  stood  for  a  minute  in  silence  while 
he  watched  her  long,  slender  fingers  twine  themselves 
in  and  out  of  the  tasseled  ends.  Then  turning  aside 
she  pushed  away  the  coffee  service  on  the  little  table 
as  if  its  fragrance  annoyed  her. 

"Is  it  in  your  way?  Do  you  wish  it  removed?" 
he  inquired,  and  when  she  had  nodded  in  reply,  he 


THE   OUTWARD   PATTERN  311 

lifted  the  tray  and  carried  it  in  the  direction  of  the 
door.  "  Don't  be  afraid.  It  is  all  right,"  he  repeated 
as  he  went  out. 

Back  in  his  own  room  again,  he  asked  himself 
desperately  if  this  existence  could  be  possible? 
Would  it  not  be  better  for  him  to  lose  himself  a 
second  time  — to  throw  in  his  lot  with  a  lower  class, 
since  his  own  had  rejected  him?  Flinging  himself 
on  the  floor  beside  the  window,  he  pressed  his  forehead 
against  the  white  painted  wood  as  if  the  outward 
violence  could  deaden  the  throbbing  agony  he  felt 
within.  Again  he  smelt  the  delicate,  yet  intense 
perfume  of  Lydia's  chamber;  again  he  saw  her  shrink- 
ing from  him  until  she  lay  crushed  and  white  against 
the  back  of  the  sofa;  again  he  watched  her  features 
contract  with  the  instinctive  repulsion  she  could  not 
control.  The  pitiful  deprecating  gesture  with  which 
she  had  murmured:  "It  is  nothing  —  a  moment's 
pain,"  was  seared  forever  like  the  mark  from  a  burn- 
ing iron  into  his  memory. 

"No,  no — it  cannot  be — it  is  impossible,"  he  said 
suddenly  aloud.  And  though  he  had  not  the 
strength  to  frame  the  rest  of  his  thought  into  words, 
he  knew  that  the  impossible  thing  he  meant  was  this 
life,  this  torture,  this  slow  martyrdom  day  by  day 
without  hope  and  without  end  except  in  death. 
After  all  there  was  a  way  of  escape,  so  why  should 
it  be  closed  to  him?  What  were  these  people  to  him 
beside  those  others  whom  he  might  yet  serve  —  the 
miserable,  the  poor,  the  afflicted  who  would  take 
from  him  the  gifts  which  his  own  had  rejected? 


3i2  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

What  duty  remained?  What  obligation?  What 
responsibility  ?  Step  by  step  he  retraced  the  nineteen 
years  of  his  marriage,  and  he  understood  for  the  first 
time,  that  Lydia  had  given  him  on  her  wedding  day 
nothing  of  herself  beyond  the  gentle,  apologetic 
gesture  which  had  followed  that  evening  her  in- 
voluntary repulsion.  From  the  beginning  to  the  end 
she  had  presided  always  above,  not  shared  in  his 
destiny.  She  had  wanted  what  he  could  give,  but 
not  himself,  and  when  he  could  give  nothing  more 
she  had  shown  that  she  wanted  him  no  longer.  While 
he  knelt  there,  still  pressing  his  forehead  against  the 
window  sill,  the  image  of  her  part  in  his  life  rose 
out  of  the  darkness  of  his  mind,  which  opened  and 
closed  over  it,  and  he  saw  her  fixed,  shining  and  im- 
movable, to  receive  his  offerings,  like  some  heathen 
deity  above  the  sacrificial  altar. 

The  next  instant  the  image  faded  and  was  re- 
placed by  Emily  as  she  had  looked  at  him  on  that 
last  evening  with  her  soft,  comforting  gaze.  The 
weakness  of  self  pity  came  over  him,  and  he  asked 
himself  in  the  coward's  luxury  of  hopeless  questioning, 
what  Emily  would  have  done  had  she  stood  to  him 
in  Lydia's  place?  He  saw  her  parting  from  him 
with  her  bright  courage  at  the  prison  doors;  he  saw 
her  meeting  him  with  her  smile  of  welcome  and  of 
forgiveness  when  he  came  out.  As  once  before  he 
had  risen  to  the  vision  of  service,  so  now  in  the  agony 
of  his  humiliation  he  was  blessed  at  last  with  the 
understanding  of  love. 

For  many  minutes  he  knelt  there  motionless  by 


THE    OUTWARD    PATTERN  313 

the  open  window,  beyond  which  he  could  see  the 
dimly  lighted  town  on  which  a  few  drops  of  rain  had 
begun  to  fall.  The  faint  perfume  of  lilies  came  up 
to  him  from  the  walk  below,  where  the  broken  sprays 
swept  from  the  house  were  fading  under  the  slow, 
soft  rain.  With  the  fragrance  the  image  of  Emily 
dissolved  as  in  a  mist  to  reappear  the  minute 
afterwards  in  a  more  torturing  and  human  shape. 
He  saw  her  now  with  her  bright  dark  hair  blown 
into  little  curls  on  her  temples,  with  her  radiant  brown 
eyes  that  penetrated  him  with  their  soft,  yet  animated 
glance.  The  vigorous  grace  of  her  figure,  as  he  had 
seen  it  outlined  in  her  scant  blue  cotton  gown  against 
the  background  of  cedars,  remained  motionless  in 
his  thoughts,  bathed  in  a  clear  golden  light  that 
tormented  his  senses. 

Rising  from  his  knees  with  an  effort,  he  struck  a 
match  and  raised  the  green  shade  from  the  lamp 
on  the  table.  Then  while  the  little  blue  flame  flick- 
ered out  in  his  hand,  he  felt  that  he  was  seized  by  a 
frantic,  an  irresistible  impulse  of  flight.  Gathering 
his  clothes  from  the  bed  in  the  darkness,  he  pushed 
them  hurriedly  back  into  the  bag  he  had  emptied, 
and  with  a  last  glance  at  the  room  which  had  become 
unendurable  to  him, opened  the  door  and  went  with  a 
rapid  step  down  the  great  staircase  and  into  the  hall 
below.  The  direction  of  his  journey,  as  well  as  the 
purpose  of  it,  was  obscure  in  his  mind.  Yesterday 
he  had  told  himself  that  he  could  not  remain 
in  Tappahannock,  and  to-day  he  knew  that  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  live  on  in  his  father's 


3i4  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

house.  To  pass  the  hall  door  meant  release — escape 
to  him. ;  beyond  that  there  lay  only  the  distance  and 
the  unknown. 

The  lights  burned  dimly  on  the  staircase,  and  when 
he  reached  the  bottom  he  could  see  on  the  carpet 
the  thin  reddish  stream  which  issued  from  the  closed 
door  of  the  library.  As  he  was  about  to  pass  by,  a 
short  sob  fell  on  his  ear,  arresting  him  as  authori- 
tatively as  if  it  had  been  the  sound  of  his  own  name. 
While  he  stood  there  listening  the  sobs  ceased  and 
then  broke  out  more  loudly ,  now  violent,  now  smoth- 
ered, now  followed  by  quick,  furious  steps  across 
the  floor  within.  Alice  was  shut  in  the  room  alone 
and  suffering!  With  the  realisation  the  bag  fell 
from  his  hand,  and  turning  the  knob  softly,  he 
opened  the  door  and  paused  for  an  instant  upon 
the  threshold. 

At  the  noise  of  the  opening  door  the  girl  made  a 
single  step  forward,  and  as  she  raised  her  hands  to 
conceal  her  distorted  features,  her  handkerchief, 
torn  into  shreds,  fell  to  the  carpet  at  her  feet. 
Around  her  the  room  showed  other  signs  of  an  out- 
break of  anger  —  the  chairs  were  pushed  hurriedly 
out  of  place,  the  books  from  the  centre  table  were 
lying  with  opened  backs  on  the  floor,  and  a  vase  of 
dahlias  lay  overturned  and  scattered  upon  the  mantel. 

"  I  don't  care — I  don't  care,"  she  repeated,  convul- 
sively. "Why  do  they  always  interfere  with  me? 
What  right  has  Dick  or  Uncle  Richard  to  say  whom 
I  shall  see  or  whom  I  shall  not?  I  hate  them  all. 
Mamma  is  always  against  me  —  so  is  Uncle  Richard  — 


THE   OUTWARD   PATTERN  315 

so  is  everybody.  They  side  with  Dick  —  always  — 
always." 

A  single  wave  of  her  dark  hair  had  fallen  low  on 
her  forehead,  and  this,  with  the  violent  colour  of 
her  mouth,  gave  her  a  look  that  was  almost  barbaric. 
The  splendid  possibilities  in  her  beauty  caused  him, 
in  the  midst  of  his  pity,  a  sensation  of  dread. 

"Alice,"  he  said  softly,  almost  in  a  whisper,  and 
closing  the  door  after  him,  he  came  to  the  middle 
of  the  room  and  stood  near  her,  though  still  without 
touching  her  quivering  body. 

"They  side  with  Dick  always,"  she  repeated 
furiously,  "  and  you  will  side  with  him,  too  —  you  will 
side  with  him,  too!" 

For  a  long  pause  he  looked  at  her  in  silence,  waiting 
until  the  convulsive  tremors  of  her  limbs  should 
cease. 

"I  shall  never  side  against  my  daughter,"  he  said 
very  slowly.  "Alice,  my  child,  my  darling,  are  you 
not  really  mine?" 

A  last  quivering  sob  shook  through  her  and  she 
grew  suddenly  still.  "They  will  tell  you  things  about 
me  and  you  will  believe  them,"  she  answered  sternly. 

"Against  you,  Alice?     Against  you?" 

"You  will  blame  me  as  they  do." 

"I  love  you,"  he  returned,  almost  as  sternly  as 
she  had  spoken. 

An  emotional  change,  so  swift  that  it  startled  him, 
broke  in  her  look,  and  he  saw  the  bright  red  of  her 
mouth  tremble  and  open  like  a  flower  in  her  glowing 
face.  At  the  sight  a  sharp  joy  took  possession 


3i6  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

of  him  —  a  joy  that  he  could  measure  only  by  the 
depth  of  the  agony  out  of  which  he  had  come.  With- 
out moving  from  his  place,  he  stretched  out  his  arms 
and  stood  waiting. 

"Alice,  I  love  you,"  he  said. 

Then  his  arms  closed  over  her,  for  with  the 
straight  flight  of  a  bird  she  had  flown  to  his  breast. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  LETTER  AND  THE  SPIRIT 

AWAKING  before  dawn,  he  realised  with  his  first 
conscious  thought  that  his  life  had  been  irrevocably 
settled  while  he  slept.  His  place  was  here ;  he  could  not 
break  away  from  it  without  leaving  a  ragged  edge; 
and  while  he  had  believed  himself  to  be  deciding  his 
future  actions,  that  greater  Destiny,  of  which  his 
will  was  only  a  part,  had  arranged  them  for  him 
during  the  dim  pause  of  the  night.  He  could  feel 
still  on  his  arm,  as  if  it  had  persisted  there  through 
his  sleep,  the  firm,  almost  viselike  pressure  of  Alice's 
hands,  and  his  whole  sensitive  nature  thrilled  in 
response  to  this  mute  appeal  to  his  fatherhood. 
Yes,  his  purpose,  his  mission,  and  his  happiness  were 
here  in  his  father's  house. 

At  breakfast  he  found  a  white  rosebud  on  his  plate, 
and  as  he  took  it  up,  Alice  rushed  in  from  the  garden 
and  threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

"I  thought  you  were  never,  never  coming  down!" 
she  exclaimed,  choking  with  laughter,  and  utterly 
forgetful  of  the  shadow  of  death  which  still  lay  over 
the  house.  "At  first  I  was  afraid  you  might  have 
gone  away  in  the  night  —  just  as  you  went  that  awful 
day  eight  years  ago.  Then  I  peeped  out  and  saw 
your  boots,  so  I  went  back  to  bed  again  and  fell  asleep. 

317 


3i8  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  you  've  come!  Why  did  you  stay 
away  such  an  age?  Now,  at  last,  1 11  have  somebody 
to  take  my  side  against  mamma  and  Dick  and  Uncle 
Richard " 

"But  why  against  them,  Alice?  Surely  they 
love  you  just  as  I  do?" 

Biting  her  lips  sharply,  she  bent  her  heavy  brows 
in  a  stern  and  frowning  expression.  "Oh,  they're 
horrid,"  she  said  angrily,  "they  want  me  to  live 
just  as  mamma  does  —  shut  up  all  day  in  a  hot  room 
on  a  hateful  sofa.  She  reads  novels  all  the  time, 
and  I  despise  books.  I  want  to  go  away  and  see 
things  and  to  have  plenty  of  clothes  and  all  the  fun 
I  choose.  They  let  Dick  do  just  as  he  pleases  because 
he's  a  boy,  but  they  try  to  make  me  dull  and  stupid 
and  foolish  all  because  I  'm  a  girl.  I  won't  have  it 
like  that  and  it  makes  them  angry " 

"Oh,  well,  we'll  have  fun  together,  you  and  I," 
returned  Ordway,  with  a  sinking  heart,  "but  you 
must  wait  a  bit  till  I  catch  up  with  you.  Don't  be 
in  a  precious  hurry,  if  you  please." 

"Shall  we  have  a  good  time,  then?  Shall  we?" 
she  persisted,  delighted,  kissing  him  with  her 
warm  mouth  until  he  was  dazzled  by  her  beauty, 
her  fascination,  her  ardent  vitality.  "And  you  will 
do  just  what  I  wish,  won't  you?"  she  whispered 
in  his  ear  as  she  hung  on  his  shoulder,  "you  will 
be  good  and  kind  always?  and  you  will  make  them 
leave  me  alone  about  Geoffrey  Heath?" 

"About  Geoffrey  Heath?"  he  repeated,  and  grew 
suddenly  serious. 


THE    LETTER  AND   THE    SPIRIT       319 

"Oh,  he  's  rich  and  he  's  fun,  too,"  she  responded 
irritably.  "  He  has  asked  me  to  ride  one  of  his  horses 
—  the  most  beautiful  chestnut  mare  in  the  world  — 
but  mamma  scolds  me  about  it  because  she  says  he  's 
not  nice  and  that  he  did  something  once  years  ago 
about  cards.  As  if  I  cared  about  cards  ! " 

By  the  fear  that  had  gripped  him  he  could  judge 
the  strength  of  her  hold  on  his  heart.  ''Alice, 
be  careful  —  promise  me  to  be  careful  ! "  he  entreated. 

At  his  words  he  felt  her  arms  relax  from  their  em- 
brace, and  she  seemed  instantly  to  turn  to  marble 
upon  his  breast.  "Oh,  you  're  just  like  the  others 
now.  I  knew  you  would  be  I"  she  exclaimed,  as 
she  drew  away  from  him. 

Before  the  coldness  of  her  withdrawal  he  felt  that 
his  will  went  out  of  him ;  and  in  one  despairing  flight 
of  imagination  he  saw  what  the  loss  of  her  affection 
would  mean  now  in  his  life.  An  emotion  which  he 
knew  to  be  weakness  pervaded  not  only  his  heart,  but 
his  soul  and  his  senses  and  the  remotest  fibre  of  his 
physical  being.  "Whatever  comes  I  shall  always 
stand  by  you,  Alice,"  he  said. 

Though  she  appeared  to  be  mollified  by  his  subjec- 
tion, the  thin  almost  imperceptible  furrows  caused 
by  the  moment's  anger,  were  still  visible  between  her 
eyebrows.  There  was  a  certain  fascination,  he  found, 
in  watching  these  marks  of  age  or  of  experience  come 
and  go  on  her  fresh,  childlike  forehead,  with  its 
lustrous  pallor,  from  which  her  splendid  dark  hair 
rolled  back,  touched  with  light,  like  a  moonlit  cloud. 
It  was  a  singular  characteristic  of  her  beauty  that  its 


320  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

appeal  was  rather  to  the  imagination  than  to  the 
eye,  and  the  moments,  perhaps,  when  she  dazzled 
least  were  those  in  which  she  conquered  most  through 
her  enigmatical  charm. 

"You  will  buy  some  clothes,  first  of  all,  will  you 
not?"  she  said,  when,  having  finished  his  breakfast, 
he  rose  from  the  table  and  went  out  into  the  hall. 

He  met  her  eyes  laughing,  filled  with  happiness  at 
the  playful  authority  she  assumed,  and  yet  fearful 
still  lest  some  incautious  word  of  his  should  bring  out 
those  fine  nervous  wrinkles  upon  her  forehead. 

"Give  me  a  week  and  I  '11  promise  you  a  fashion 
plate,"  he  responded  gaily,  kissing  his  hand  to  her 
as  he  went  down  the  steps,  and,  under  the  trailing 
rose  creepers  at  the  gate,  out  into  the  street. 

Rain  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and  the  ground  was 
covered  with  shining  puddles  beneath  which  a  few 
autumn  leaves  showed  drenched  and  beaten.  From 
the  golden  and  red  maples  above  a  damp  odour  was 
wafted  down  into  his  face  by  the  October  wind,  which 
now  rose  and  now  died  away  with  a  gentle  sound.  In 
the  pale  sunshine,  which  had  not  yet  drained  the 
moisture  from  the  bricks,  a  wonderful  freshness 
seemed  to  emanate  from  the  sky  and  the  earth  and  the 
white-pillared  houses. 

As  he  approached  the  corner,  he  heard  his  name 
called  in  a  clear  emphatic  voice  from  the  opposite 
sidewalk,  and  turning  his  head,  he  saw  hastening 
toward  him,  a  little  elderly  lady  in  a  black  silk  gown 
trimmed  heavily  with  bugles.  As  she  neared  him, 
followed  by  a  young  Negro  maid  bearing  a  market 


THE    LETTER  AND   THE    SPIRIT       321 

basket  filled  with  vegetables,  he  recognised  her  as 
an  intimate  friend  of  his  mother's,  whom  he  had 
known  familiarly  in  his  childhood  as  "Aunt  Lucy." 
It  seemed  so  long  now  since  his  mother's  death  that 
he  was  attacked  by  a  ghostly  sensation,  as  if  he  were 
dreaming  over  his  past  life,  while  he  stood  face  to 
face  with  the  old  lady's  small  soldierly  figure  and 
listened  to  the  crisp,  emphatic  tones  in  which  she 
welcomed  him  back  to  Botetourt.  He  remembered 
his  frequent  visits  to  her  solemn  old  house,  which 
she  kept  so  dark  that  he  had  always  stumbled  over 
the  two  embroidered  ottomans  on  the  parlour 
hearth.  He  recalled  the  smell  of  spices  which  had  hung 
about  her  storeroom,  and  the  raspberry  preserves 
which  she  had  never  failed  to  give  him  out  of  a  blue 
china  jar. 

"Why,  my  dear,  blessed  child,  it 's  such  a  pleasure 
to  have  you  back!"  she  exclaimed  now  with  an  effu- 
sion which  he  felt  to  be  the  outward  veil  of  some 
hidden  embarrassment.  "You  must  come  some- 
times and  let  me  talk  to  you  about  your  mother.  I 
knew  your  mother  so  well  —  I  was  one  of  her  brides- 
maids." 

Seizing  his  arm  in  her  little  firm,  clawlike  hands, 
she  assured  him  with  animation  of  her  delight  at  his 
return,  alluding  in  a  shaking  voice  to  his  mother, 
and  urging  him  to  come  to  sit  with  her  whenever 
he  could  stand  the  gloom  of  her  empty  house. 

"And  you  will  give  me  raspberry  preserves  out  of 
the  blue  china  jar?"  he  asked,  laughing,  "and  let 
me  feed  crackers  to  the  green  parrot?" 


322  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"What  a  boy !  What  a  boy!"  she  returned.  "You 
remember  everything.  The  parrot  is  dead  —  my 
poor  Polly  !  —  but  there  is  a  second." 

Her  effusiveness,  her  volubility,  which  seemed  to 
him  to  be  the  result  of  concealed  embarrassment, 
produced  in  him  presently  a  feeling  of  distrust, 
almost  of  resentment,  and  he  remembered  the 
next  instant  that,  in  his  childhood,  she  had  been 
looked  upon  as  a  creature  of  uncontrolled  charitable 
impulses.  Upon  the  occasion  of  his  last  meeting 
with  her  was  she  not  hastening  upon  some  minister- 
ing errand  to  the  city  gaol?  At  the  casual  recollec- 
tion an  unreasoning  bitterness  awoke  in  his  mind; 
her  reiterated  raptures  fell  with  a  strange  effect  of 
irritation  upon  his  ears ;  and  he  knew  now  that  he  could 
never  bring  himself  to  enter  her  house  again,  that  he 
could  never  accept  her  preserved  raspberries  out  of 
the  blue  china  jar.  Her  reception  of  him,  he  saw, 
was  but  a  part  of  the  general  reception  of  Botetourt. 
Like  her  the  town  would  be  voluble,  unnatural,  over- 
done in  its  kindness,  hiding  within  itself  a  furtive 
constraint  as  if  it  addressed  its  speeches  to  the  sen- 
sitive sufferer  from  some  incurable  malady.  The  very 
tenderness,  the  exaggerated  sympathy  in  its  manner 
would  hardly  have  been  different,  he  understood,  if  he 
had  been  recently  discharged  as  harmless,  yet  half- 
distraught,  from  an  asylum  for  the  insane. 

As  the  days  went  on  this  idea,  instead  of  dissolving, 
became  unalterably  lodged  in  his  brain.  Gradually 
he  retreated,  further  and  further  into  himself,  until 
the  spiritual  isolation  in  which  he  lived  appeared  to 


THE   LETTER  AND   THE    SPIRIT       323 

him  more  and  more  like  the  isolation  of  the  prison. 
His  figure  had  become  a  familiar  one  in  the  streets 
of  Botetourt,  yet  he  lived  bodily  among  the  people 
without  entering  into  their  lives  or  sharing  in  any 
degree  the  emotions  that  moved  their  hearts.  Only 
in  periods  of  sorrow  did  he  go  willingly  into  the 
houses  of  those  of  his  own  class,  though  he  had  found 
a  way  from  the  beginning  to  reach  the  poor,  the  dis- 
tressed, or  the  physically  afflicted.  His  tall,  slightly 
stooping  figure,  in  its  loose  black  clothes,  his  dark 
head,  with  the  thick  locks  of  iron  gray  hair  upon  the 
temples,  his  sparkling  blue  eyes,  his  bright,  almost 
boyish  smile,  and  the  peculiar,  unforgettable  charm 
of  his  presence  —  these  were  the  things  which  those 
in  sickness  or  poverty  began  to  recognise  and  to  look 
for.  In  his  own  home  he  lived,  except  for  the  fitful 
tenderness  of  Alice,  as  much  apart  as  he  felt  him- 
self to  be  in  the  little  town.  They  were  consid- 
erate of  him,  but  their  consideration,  he  knew,  con- 
tained an  ineradicable  suspicion,  and  in  the  house  as 
outside,  he  was  surrounded  by  the  watchful  regard 
that  is  given  to  the  infirm  or  the  mentally  diseased. 
He  read  this  in  Lydia's  gently  averted  eyes;  he 
felt  it  in  Richard  Ordway's  constrained  manner; 
he  detected  it  even  in  the  silent  haste  with  which  the 
servants  fulfilled  his  slightest  wish. 

His  work  in  his  uncle's  office,  he  had  soon  found  to 
be  of  the  most  mechanical  character,  a  mere  pretext 
to  give  him  daily  employment,  and  he  told  himself, 
in  a  moment  of  bitterness  that  it  was  convincing- 
proof  of  the  opinion  which  the  older  man  must  hold 


324  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

of  his  honesty  or  of  his  mental  capacity.  It  became 
presently  little  more  than  a  hopeless  round  to 
him  —  this  morning  walk  through  the  sunny 
streets,  past  the  ivied  walls  of  the  old  church,  to  the 
clean,  varnish  scented  office,  where  he  sat,  until  the 
luncheon  hour,  under  the  hard,  though  not  unkind, 
eyes  of  the  man  who  reminded  him  at  every  instant 
of  his  dead  father.  And  the  bitterest  part  of  it,  after 
all,  was  that  the  closer  he  came  to  the  character  of 
Richard  Ordway,  the  prof o under  grew  his  respect 
for  his  uncle's  unwavering  professional  honour.  The 
old  man  would  have  starved,  he  knew,  rather  than 
have  held  back  a  penny  that  was  not  legally  his  own 
or  have  owed  a  debt  that  he  felt  had  begun  to  weigh, 
however  lightly,  upon  his  conscience.  Yet  this 
lawyer  of  scrupulous  rectitude  was  the  husband, 
his  nephew  suspected,  of  a  neglected,  a  wretchedly 
unhappy  wife  —  a  small,  nervous  creature,  whom 
he  had  married,  shortly  after  the  death  of  his  first 
wife,  some  twenty  years  ago.  The  secret  of  this 
unhappiness  Daniel  had  discovered  almost  by  in- 
tuition on  the  day  of  his  father's  funeral,  when  he 
had  looked  up  suddenly  in  the  cemetery  to  find  his 
uncle's  wife  regarding  him  with  a  pair  of  wonderful, 
pathetic  eyes,  which  seemed  to  gaze  at  him  sadly 
out  of  a  blue  mist.  So  full  of  sympathy  and  under- 
standing was  her  look  that  the  memory  of  it  had 
returned  to  him  more  than  a  year  later,  and  had 
caused  him  to  stop  at  her  gate  one  November  after- 
noon as  he  was  returning  from  his  office  work.  After 
an  instant's  pause,  and  an  uncertain  glance  at  the 


THE   LETTER  AND   THE    SPIRIT       325 

big  brick  house  with  its  clean  white  columns,  he  as- 
sended  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell  for  the  first  time 
since  his  boyhood. 

The  house  was  one  of  the  most  charming  in  Bot- 
etourt,  but  as  he  followed  the  servant  down  the  hall 
to  the  library,  it  seemed  to  him  that  all  these  high, 
imposing  walls,  with  their  fine  white  woodwork, 
enclosed  but  so  much  empty  space  to  fill  with  lone- 
liness. His  uncle  had  no  children,  and  the  sad,  fair- 
haired  little  wife  appeared  to  be  always  alone  and 
always  suffering. 

She  was  seated  now  in  a  low  rocking-chair  beside 
the  window,  and  as  she  turned  her  head  at  his  en- 
trance, he  could  see,  through  the  lace  curtains,  a  few 
pale  November  leaves,  which  fluttered  down  from  an 
elm  tree  beside  the  porch.  When  she  looked  at  him  he 
noticed  that  her  eyes  were  large  and  beautiful  and 
of  a  changeable  misty  colour  which  appeared  now 
gray,  now  violet. 

"It  is  so  good  of  you,  Daniel,"  she  said,  in  a  soft, 
grateful  voice,  removing  her  work-basket  from  the 
chair  at  her  side  so  that  he  might  come  within  the 
reach  of  her  short-sighted  gaze. 

"  I  've  wanted  to  come  ever  since  I  saw  you  for  the 
first  time  after  my  return,"  he  answered  cheerfully. 
"It  is  strange,  isn't  it? — that  I  hardly  remember  you 
when  I  lived  here.  You  were  always  ill,  were 
you  not?" 

"Yes,  ill  almost  always,"  she  replied,  smiling  as 
she  met  his  glance.  "When  you  were  married  I 
remember  I  could  n't  go  to  the  wedding  because  I 


326  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

had  been  in  bed  for  three  months.  But  that 's  all 
over  now."  she  added,  fearing  to  produce  in  him  a 
momentary  depression.  "I  am  well  again,  you  see, 
so  the  past  does  n't  matter." 

"The  past  doesn't  matter,"  he  repeated  in  alow 
voice,  struck  by  the  words  as  if  they  held  more  than 
their  surface  meaning  for  his  ears. 

She  nodded  gravely.  "  How  can  it  matter  if  one  is 
really  happy  at  last." 

"And  you  are  happy  at  last?" 

As  he  watched  her  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  pale 
flame  burned  in  her  face,  tinging  its  sallow  wanness 
with  a  golden  light.  "I  am  at  peace  and  is  that  not 
happiness?"  she  asked. 

"But  you  were  sad  once  —  that  day  in  the  cem- 
etery? I  felt  it." 

"That  was  while  I  was  still  struggling,"  she 
answered,  "and  it  always  hurts  one  to  struggle.  I 
wanted  happiness  —  I  kept  on  wanting  it  even  after 
I  ceased  to  believe  in  its  existence.  I  fought  very 
hard  —  oh,  desperately  hard  —  but  now  I  have 
learned  that  the  only  way  to  get  anything  is  to  give 
it  up.  Happiness  is  like  everything  else,  it  is  only 
when  one  gives  it  back  to  God  that  one  really 
possesses  it" 

He  had  never  seen  a  face  in  which  the  soul  spoke  so 
clearly,  and  her  look  rather  than  her  words  came  to 
him  like  the  touch  of  divine  healing. 

"When  I  saw  you  standing  beside  your  father's 
grave,  I  knew  that  you  were  just  where  I  had  been 
for  so  many  years  —  that  you  were  still  telling  your 


THE   LETTER  AND   THE    SPIRIT       327 

self  that  things  were  too  hard,  that  they  were  unen- 
durable. I  had  been  through  it  all,  you  see,  so  I 
understood." 

"But  how  could  you  know  the  bitterness,  the 
shame  of  feeling  that  it  was  all  the  result  of  my  own 
mistake  —  of  my  own  sin. " 

Taking  his  hand  in  hers,  she  sat  for  a  moment  in 
silence  with  her  ecstatic  gaze  fixed  on  his  face.  "I 
know  that  in  spite  of  your  sin  you  are  better  than  they 
are,"  she  said  at  last,  ''because  your  sin  was  on  the 
outside  —  a  thing  to  be  sloughed  off  and  left  far  be- 
hind, while  their  self-righteouness  is  of  their  very 
souls " 

;<Oh,  hush,  hush,"  he  interrupted  sternly,  "they 
have  forgiven  me  for  what  I  did,  that  is  enough." 

"Sixteen  years  ago,"  she  returned,  dropping  her 
voice,  "my  husband  forgave  me  in  the  same  way, 
and  he  has  never  forgotten  it." 

At  his  start  of  surprise,  he  felt  that  she  clung  the 
more  closely  to  the  hand  she  held.  "  Oh,  it  was  n't  so 
big  a  thing,"  she  went  on,  "I  had  been  married  to 
him  for  five  years,  and  I  was  very  unhappy  when  I 
met  someone  who  seemed  to  understand  and  to  love 
me.  For  a  time  I  was  almost  insane  with  the  wonder 
and  delight  of  it  —  I  might  have  gone  away  with  him 
—  with  the  other  —  in  my  first  rapture,  had  not 
Richard  found  it  all  out  two  days  before.  He  be- 
haved very  generously  —  he  forgave  me.  I  should 
have  been  happier,"  she  added  a  little  wistfully, 
"if  he  had  not." 

As  she  broke  off  trembling,   he  lifted  her  hand 


328  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

to  his  lips,  kissing  it  with  tenderness,  almost  with 
passion.  "Then  that  was  the  beginning  of  your 
tmhappiness  —  of  your  long  illness!"  he  exclaimed. 

She  nodded  smiling,  while  a  tear  ran  slowly  down 
her  flushed  cheek.  "He  forgave  me  sixteen  years 
ago  and  he  has  never  allowed  me  to  forget  it  one  hour 
—  hardly  a  minute  since." 

"Then  you  understand  how  bitter  —  how  intoler- 
able it  is!"  he  returned  in  an  outbreak  of  anger. 

"I  thought  I  knew,"  she  replied  more  firmly 
than  he  had  ever  heard  her  speak,  "but  I  learned 
afterwards  that  it  was  a  mistake.  I  see  now  that 
they  are  kind  —  that  they  are  good  in  their  way, 
and  I  love  them  for  it.  It  isn't  our  way,  I  know, 
but  the  essence  of  charity,  after  all,  is  to  learn  to 
appreciate  goodness  in  all  its  expressions,  no  matter 
how  different  they  may  be  from  our  own.  Even 
Richard  is  kind  —  he  means  everything  for  the  best, 
and  it  is  only  his  nature  that  is  straightened — that 
is  narrow  —  not  his  will.  I  felt  bitterly  once,  but 
not  now  because  I  am  so  happy  at  last." 

Beyond  the  pale  outline  of  her  head,  he  saw  the 
elm  leaves  drifting  slowly  down,  and  beyond  them 
the  low  roofs  and  the  dim  church  spires  of  the  quiet 
town.  Was  it  possible  that  even  here  he  might 
find  peace  in  the  heart  of  the  storm? 

"It  is  only  since  I  have  given  my  happiness  back 
to  God  that  it  is  really  mine,"  she  said,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  again  that  her  soul  gathered  brightness  and 
shone  in  her  face. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  WILL  OP  ALICE 

WHEN  he  reached  home  the  servant  who  helped 
him  out  of  his  overcoat,  informed  him  at  the  same 
time  that  his  uncle  awaited  him  in  the  library.  With 
the  news  a  strange  chill  came  over  him  as  if  he  had 
left  something  warm  and  bright  in  the  November 
sunset  outside.  For  an  instant  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  must  turn  back — that  he  could  not  go  for- 
ward. Then  with  a  gesture  of  assent,  he  crossed 
the  hall  and  entered  the  library,  where  he  found 
Lydia  and  the  children  as  well  as  Richard  Ordway. 

The  lamps  were  unlit,  and  the  mellow  light  of  the 
sunset  fell  through  the  interlacing  half-bared  boughs 
of  the  golden  poplar  beyond  the  window.  This  light, 
so  rich,  so  vivid,  steeped  the  old  mahogany  furniture 
and  the  faded  family  portraits  in  a  glow  which 
seemed  to  Daniel  to  release,  for  the  first  time,  some 
latent  romantic  spirit  that  had  dwelt  in  the  room. 
In  the  midst  of  this  glamor  of  historic  atmosphere, 
the  four  figures,  gathered  so  closely  together  against 
the  clear  space  of  the  window,  with  its  network  of 
poplar  leaves  beyond  the  panes,  borrowed  for  the 
moment  a  strange  effectiveness  of  pose,  a  singular 
intensity  of  outline.  Not  only  the  figures,  but  the 
very  objects  by  which  they  were  surrounded  appeared 
to  vibrate  in  response  to  a  tragic  impulse. 

329 


330  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

Richard  Ordway  was  standing  upon  the  hearth- 
rug, his  fine  head  and  profile  limned  sharply  against 
the  pale  brown  wall  at  his  side.  His  right  hand  was 
on  Lydia's  shoulder,  who  sat  motionless,  as  if  she 
had  fallen  there,  with  her  gentle,  flower-like  head 
lying  upon  the  arm  of  her  son.  Before  them,  as 
before  her  judges,  Alice  was  drawn  to  her  full  height, 
her  girlish  body  held  tense  and  quivering,  her  splendid 
hair  loosened  about  her  forehead,  her  trembling 
mouth  making  a  violent  contrast  to  the  intense 
pallor  of  her  face. 

Right  or  wrong  Ordway  saw  only  that  she  was 
standing  alone,  and  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  he 
turned  toward  her  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Alice,"  he  said  softly,  as  if  the  others  were  not 
present.  Without  raising  her  eyes,  she  shrank  from 
him  in  the  direction  of  Richard  Ordway,  as  if  shielding 
herself  behind  the  iron  fortitude  of  the  man  whom 
she  so  bitterly  disliked 

"Alice  has  been  out  driving  alone  with  Geoffrey 
Heath  all  the  afternoon,"  said  Lydia  in  her  clear, 
calm  voice.  "We  had  forbidden  it,  but  she  says 
that  you  knew  of  it  and  did  not  object  to  her  going." 

With  the  knowledge  of  the  lie,  Ordway  grew  red 
with  humiliation,  while  his  gaze  remained  fastened 
on  the  figure  in  the  carpet  at  Alice's  feet.  He  could 
not  look  at  her,  for  he  felt  that  her  shame  was  scorch- 
ing him  like  a  hot  wind.  To  look  at  her  at  the 
moment  meant  to  convict  her,  and  this  his  heart 
told  him  he  could  never  do.  He  was  conscious  of 
the  loud  ticking  of  the  clock,  of  the  regular  tapping 


THE   WILL   OF  ALICE  331 

of  Richard's  fingers  upon  the  marble  mantel-piece, 
of  the  fading  light  on  the  poplar  leaves  beyond  the 
window,  and  presently  of  the  rapid  roll  of  a  carriage 
that  went  by  in  the  street.  Each  of  these  sounds 
produced  in  him  a  curious  irritation  like  a  physical 
smart,  and  he  felt  again  something  of  the  dumb 
resentment  with  which  he  had  entered  his  wife's 
dressing-room  on  the  morning  of  his  arrest.  Then 
a  smothered  sob  reached  his  ear,  and  Alice  began  to 
tremble  from  head  to  foot  at  his  side.  Lifting  his 
eyes  at  last,  he  made  a  step  forward  and  drew  her 
into  his  arms. 

"Was  it  so  very  wrong?  I  am  sorry,"  he  said  to 
Lydia  over  the  bowed  head  of  their  child.  Until 
the  words  were  uttered,  and  he  felt  Alice's  tense 
body  relax  in  his  arms,  he  had  not  realised  that  in 
taking  sides  with  her,  he  was  not  only  making 
himself  responsible  for  her  fault,  he  was,  in  truth, 
actually  sharing  in  the  lie  that  she  had  spoken.  The 
choice  was  an  unconscious  one,  yet  he  knew  even 
in  the  ensuing  moment  of  his  clearer  judgment  that 
it  had  been  inevitable  —  that  from  the  first  instant, 
when  he  had  paused  speechless  upon  the  threshold, 
there  had  been  open  to  him  no  other  course. 

"I  am  sorry  if  it  was  wrong,"  he  repeated,  turning 
his  glance  now  upon  Richard  Ordway. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  Geoffrey  Heath? 
Have  you  heard  him  spoken  of  by  decent  people 
since  you  have  been  in  Botetourt?"  asked  'the  old 
man  sternly. 

"I  have  heard   little  of  him,"  answered  Daniel, 


332  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"and  that  little  was  far  from  good.  We  are  sorry, 
Alice,  are  we  not?  It  must  not  happen  again  if 
we  can  help  it." 

"It  has  happened  before,"  said  Lydia,  lifting  her 
head  from  Dick's  arm,  where  it  had  lain.  "It  was 
then  that  I  forbade  her  to  see  him  alone." 

"I  did  not  know,"  responded  Daniel,  "but  she 
will  do  as  you  wish  hereafter.  Will  you  not,  Alice?" 

"How  does  it  concern  them?  What  have  they 
to  do  with  me?"  demanded  Alice,  turning  in  his 
arms  to  face  her  mother  with  a  defiant  and  angry 
look,  "they  have  never  cared  for  me  —  they  have 
always  preferred  Dick — always,  even  when  I  was 
a  little  child." 

He  saw  Lydia  grow  white  and  hide  her  drooping 
face  again  on  Dick's  shoulder.  "You  are  unjust 
to  your  mother,  Alice,"  he  said  gravely,  "she  has 
loved  you  always,  and  I  have  loved  you." 

"Oh,  you  are  different  —  I  would  die  for  you!"  she 
exclaimed  passionately,  as  she  wept  on  his  breast. 

While  he  stood  there  holding  her  in  his  arms,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  could  feel  like  an  electric 
current  the  wave  of  feeling  which  had  swept  Alice 
and  himself  together.  The  inheritance  which  was 
his  had  descended  to  her  also  with  its  keen  joys  and 
its  sharp  anguish.  Even  the  road  which  he  had 
travelled  so  lately  in  weariness  was  the  one  upon 
which  her  brave  young  feet  were  now  set.  Not  his 
alone,  but  his  child's  also,  was  this  mixture  of 
strength  and  weakness,  of  gaiety  and  sadness,  of 
bitterness  and  compassion. 


THE   WILL   OF   ALICE  333 

"If  you  will  leave  me  alone  with  her,  I  think  I 
can  make  her  understand  what  you  wish,"  he  said, 
lifting  his  eyes  from  the  dark  head  on  his  breast  to 
Lydia,  who  had  risen  and  was  standing  before  him 
with  her  pensive,  inquiring  gaze  fixed  on  his  face. 
"She  is  like  me,"  he  added  abruptly,  "in  so  many 
ways." 

"Yes,  she  is  like  you,  I  have  always  thought  so/' 
returned  Lydia,  quietly. 

"And  for  that  reason,  perhaps,  you  have  never 
quite  understood  her,"  he  responded. 

She  bowed  her  head  as  if  too  polite  or  too  indiffer- 
ent to  dissent  from  his  words;  and  then  slipping 
her  hand  through  Richard  Or d way's  arm,  she  stood 
waiting  patiently  while  the  old  man  delivered  his 
last  bit  of  remonstrance. 

"Try  to  curb  her  impulses,  Daniel,  or  you  will 
regret  it." 

He  went  out,  still  holding  Lydia's  hand,  and  a 
moment  afterwards,  when  Daniel  looked  up  at  the 
sound  of  the  hall  door  closing  quickly,  he  saw  that 
Dick  also  had  vanished,  and  that  he  was  alone  in  the 
library  with  Alice,  who  still  sobbed  on  his  breast. 

A  few  moments  before  it  had  seemed  to  him  that 
he  needed  only  to  be  alone  with  her  to  make  all 
perfectly  clear  between  them.  But  when  the  others 
had  passed  out,  and  the  door  had  closed  at  last  on 
the  empty  silence  in  which  they  stood,  he  found  that 
the  words  which  he  had  meant  to  utter  had  van- 
ished hopelessly  from  his  mind.  He  had  said  to 
Lydia  that  Alice  was  like  himself,  but  there  had  never 


334  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

been  an  hour  in  his  life  when  his  hatred  of  a  lie  had 
not  been  as  intense,  as  uncompromising,  as  it  was 
to-day.  And  this  lie  which  she  had  spoken  appeared 
to  divide  them  now  like  a  drawn  sword. 

"Alice,'/  he  said,  breaking  with  an  effort  through 
the  embarrassment  which  had  held  him  speechless, 
"will  you  give  me  your  word  of  honour  that  you 
will  never  tell  me  a  falsehood  again?" 

She  stirred  slightly  in  his  arms,  and  he  felt  her 
body  grow  soft  and  yielding.  "I  did  n't  to  you," 
she  answered,  "oh,  I  wouldn't  to  you." 

"Not  to  the  others  then.     Will  you  promise?" 

Her  warm  young  arm  tightened  about  his  neck. 
"I  didn't  mean  to — I  didn't  mean  to,"  she  protested 
between  her  sobs,  "but  they  forced  me  to  do  it.  It 
was  more  than  half  their  fault  —  they  are  so  —  so 
hateful!  I  tried  to  think  of  something  else,  but  there 
was  nothing  to  say,  and  I  knew  you  would  stand  by 
me " 

"You  have  almost  broken  my  heart,"  he  answered, 
"for  you  have  lied,  Alice,  you  have  lied." 

She  lifted  her  head  and  the  next  instant  he  felt 
her  mouth  on  his  cheek,  "  I  wish  I  were  dead!  I  have 
hurt  you  and  I  wish  I  were  dead!"  she  cried. 

"It  is  not  hurting  me  that  I  mind  —  you  may  do 
that  and  welcome.  It  is  hurting  yourself,  my  child, 
my  Alice,"  he  answered;  and  pressing  her  upturned 
face  back  on  his  arm,  he  bent  over  her  in  an  ecstasy 
of  emotion,  calling  her  his  daughter,  his  darling, 
the  one  joy  of  his  life.  The  iron  in  his  nature  had 
melted  beneath  her  warm  touch,  and  he  felt  again 


THE    WILL   OF   ALICE  335 

the  thrill,  half  agony,  half  rapture,  with  which  he 
had  received  her  into  his  arms  on  the  day  of  her 
birth.  That  day  was  nearer  to  him  now  than  was  the 
minute  in  which  he  stood,  and  he  could  trace  still 
the  soft,  babyish  curves  in  the  face  which  nestled 
so  penitently  on  his  arm.  His  very  fear  for  her 
moved  him  into  a  deeper  tenderness,  and  the  appeal 
she  made  to  him  now  was  one  with  the  appeal  of 
her  infancy,  for  its  power  lay  in  her  weakness,  not 
in  her  strength. 

"Be  truthful  with  me,  Alice,"  he  said,  "and  re- 
member that  nothing  can  separate  me  from  you." 

An  hour  later  when  he  parted  from  her  and  went 
upstairs,  he  heard  Lydia's  voice  calling  to  him 
through  her  half  open  door,  and  turning  obediently, 
he  entered  her  bedroom  for  the  first  time  since  the 
night  of  his  return.  Now  as  then  the  luxury,  the 
softness,  of  his  wife's  surroundings  produced  in  him 
a  curious  depression,  an  enervation  of  body;  and 
he  stood  for  an  instant  vainly  striving  to  close  his 
nostrils  against  the  delicious  perfume  which  floated 
from  her  lace-trimmed  dressing-table. 

Lydia,  still  in  her  light  mourning  gown,  was  stand- 
ing, when  he  entered,  before  a  little  marquetry  desk 
in  one  corner,  her  eyes  on  an  open  letter  which  she 
appeared  to  have  left  partially  unread, 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Daniel,"  she  began  at  once, 
approaching  the  point  with  a  directness  which  left 
him  no  time  to  wonder  as  to  the  purpose  of  her  sum- 
mons, "that  Alice's  intimacy  with  Geoffrey  Heath 
has  already  been  commented  upon  in  Botetourt. 


336  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

Cousin  Paulina  has  actually  written  to  me  for  an 
explanation." 

"Cousin  Paulina?"  he  repeated  vaguely,  and  re- 
membered immediately  that  the  lady  in  question 
was  his  wife's  one  rich  relation  —  an  elderly  female 
who  was  greatly  respected  for  her  fortune,  which 
she  spent  entirely  in  gratifying  her  personal  passion 
for  trinkets.  "Oh,  yes,"  he  added  flippantly,  "the 
old  lady  who  used  to  look  like  a  heathen  idol  got 
up  for  the  sacrifice." 

He  felt  that  his  levity  was  out  of  place,  yet  he 
went  on  rashly  because  he  knew  that  he  was  doomed 
forever  to  appear  at  a  disadvantage  in  Lydia's 
presence.  She  would  never  believe  in  him  —  his 
best  motives  would  wear  always  to  her  the  covering 
of  hypocrisy;  and  the  very  hopelessness  of  ever 
convincing  her  goaded  him  at  times  into  the  reckless 
folly  of  despair. 

"She  writes  me  that  people  are  talking  of  it," 
she  resumed,  sweetly,  as  if  his  untimely  mirth  had 
returned  still-born  into  the  vacancy  from  which  it 
emerged. 

"Who  is  this  Geoffrey  Heath  you  speak  of  so 
incessantly?"  he  demanded.  "There  was  a  Heath, 
I  remember,  who  had  a  place  near  us  in  the  country, 
and  kept  a  barroom  or  a  butcher's  shop  or  something 
in  town." 

"That  was  the  father,"  replied  Lydia,  with  a  shud- 
der which  deepened  the  slightly  scornful  curve 
of  her  lip.  "He  was  a  respectable  old  man,  I 
believe,  and  made  his  fortune  quite  honestly,  how- 


THE   WILL   OF   ALICE  337 

ever  it  was.  It  was  only  after  his  son  began  to  grow 
up  that  he  became  socially  ambitious " 

"And  is  that  all  you  have  against  him?" 

"  Oh,  there 's  nothing  against  the  old  man — nothing 
at  least  except  the  glaring  bad  taste  he  showed  in 
that  monstrous  house  he  built  in  Henry  Street. 
He  's  dead  now,  you  know.*' 

"Then  the  son  has  all  the  money  and  the  house, 
too,  hasn't  he?" 

"All  he  hasn't  wasted,  yes." 

As  she  spoke  she  subsided  into  a  chair,  with  a 
graceful,  eddying  motion  of  her  black  chiffon  draper- 
ies, and  continued  the  conversation  with  an  expres- 
sion of  smiling  weariness.  All  her  attitudes  were 
effective,  and  he  was  struck,  while  he  stood,  em- 
barrassed and  awkward,  before  her,  by  the  plain- 
tive grace  that  she  introduced  into  her  smallest 
gesture.  Though  he  was  aware  that  he  saw  her  now 
too  clearly  for  passion,  the  appeal  of  her  delicate 
fairness  went  suddenly  to  his  head. 

"Then  there's  not  much  to  be  said  for  the  chap, 
I  suppose?"  he  asked  abruptly,  fearing  the  pro- 
longed strain  of  the  silence. 

"Very  little  for  him,  but  a  good  deal  about  him, 
according  to  Cousin  Paulina.  It  seems  that  three 
years  ago  he  was  sent  away  from  the  University  for 
something  disgraceful  —  cheating  at  cards,  I  believe ; 
and  since  then  he  has  been  conspicuous  chiefly  be- 
cause of  his  low  associations.  How  Alice  met  him, 
I  could  never  understand  —  I  can't  understand  now." 

*  And  do  you  think  she  cares  for  him — that  she 


338  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

even  imagines  that  she  does?"  he  demanded,  while 
his  terror  rose  in  his  throat  and  choked  back  his 
words. 

"She  will  not  confess  it  —  how  could  she?"  replied 
Lydia  wearily,  "I  believe  it  is  only  wildness,  reck- 
lessness, lack  of  discipline  that  prompts  her.  Yet 
he  is  good-looking  —  in  a  vulgar  way,"  she  added 
in  disgust,  "and  Alice  has  always  seemed  to  like 
vulgar  things." 

Her  eyes  rested  on  him,  not  directly,  but  as  if 
they  merely  included  him  in  their  general  pensive 
survey  of  the  world;  yet  he  read  the  accusation  in 
her  gentle  avoidance  of  his  gaze  as  plainly  as  she 
had  uttered  in  it  her  clear,  flute-like  tones. 

"It  is  very  important,"  she  went  on,  "that  she 
should  be  curbed  in  her  impulses,  in  her  extravagance. 
Already  her  bills  are  larger  than  mine  and  yet  she 
is  never  satisfied  with  the  amount  of  her  allowance. 
We  can  do  nothing  with  her,  Uncle  Richard  and  I, 
but  she  seems  to  yield,  in  a  measure,  to  your  influence, 
and  we  thought  —  we  hoped " 

' '  I  will  —  I  will,"  he  answered.  ' '  I  will  give  my  life 
to  help  her  if  need  be.  But  Lydia,"  he  broke  out 
more  earnestly,  "you  must  stand  by  and  aid  me  for 
her  sake,  for  the  sake  of  our  child,  we  must  work 
together " 

Half  rising  in  her  chair,  she  looked  at  him  fix- 
edly a  moment,  while  he  saw  her  pupils  dilate  almost 
as  if  she  were  in  physical  fear. 

"But  what  can  I  do?  I  have  done  all  I  could," 
she  protested,  with  an  injured  look.  By  this  look, 


THE   WILL   OF  ALICE  339 

without  so  much  as  a  gesture,  she  put  the  space  of 
the  whole  room  between  them.  The  corners  of  her 
mouth  quivered  and  drooped,  and  he  watched  the 
pathos  creep  back  into  her  light  blue  eyes.  "I  have 
given  up  my  whole  life  to  the  children  since  — 
since 

She  broke  off  in  a  frightened  whisper,  but  the  un- 
finished sentence  was  more  expressive  than  a  volley 
of  reproaches  would  have  been.  There  was  some- 
thing in  her  thoughts  too  horrible  to  put  into  words, 
and  this  something  of  which  she  could  not  bring  her- 
self to  speak,  would  have  had  no  place  in  her  exist- 
ence except  for  him.  He  felt  cowed  suddenly,  as 
if  he  had  been  physically  beaten  and  thrust  aside. 

"You  have  been  very  brave  —  I  know  —  I  ap- 
preciate it  all,"  he  said,  and  while  he  spoke  he  drew 
away  from  her  until  he  stood  with  his  back  against 
one  of  the  amber  satin  curtains.  Instinctively  he  put 
out  his  hand  for  support,  and  as  it  closed  over  the 
heavy  draperies,  he  felt  that  the  hard  silken  texture 
made  his  flesh  creep.  The  physical  sensation,  brief  as 
it  was,  recalled  in  some  strange  way  the  effect  upon 
him  of  Lydia's  smooth  and  shining  surface  when  he 
had  knelt  before  her  on  the  night  of  his  home- 
coming. Yet  it  was  with  difficulty  even  now  that  he 
could  free  himself  from  the  conviction  that  her 
emotional  apathy  was  but  one  aspect  of  innocence. 
Would  he  admit  to-day  that  what  he  had  once  wor- 
shipped as  purity  of  soul  was  but  the  frost  of  an 
unnatural  coldness  of  nature?  All  at  once,  as  he 
looked  at  her,  he  found  himself  reminded  by  her  calm 


340  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

forehead,  her  classic  features,  of  the  sculptured  front 
of  a  marble  tomb  which  he  had  seen  in  some  foreign 
gallery.  Was  there  death,  after  all,  not  life  hidden  for 
him  in  her  plaintive  beauty?  The  next  instant,  as 
he  watched  her,  he  told  himself  that  such  questions 
belonged  to  the  evil  promptings  of  his  own  nature. 

"I  realise  all  that  you  have  been,  all  that  you  have 
suffered,"  he  said  at  last,  aware  that  his  words 
sounded  hysterical  in  the  icy  constraint  which  sur- 
rounded them. 

When  his  speech  was  out,  his  embarrassment  be- 
came so  great  that  he  found  himself  presently  measur- 
ing the  distance  which  divided  him  from  the  closed 
door.  With  a  last  effort  of  will,  he  went  toward  her 
and  stretched  out  his  hand  in  a  gesture  that  was 
almost  one  of  entreaty. 

"Lydia,"  he  asked,  "is  it  too  painful  for  you  to 
have  me  here?  Would  it  be  any  better  for  you  if 
I  went  away?" 

As  he  moved  toward  her  she  bent  over  with  a 
nervous,  mechanical  movement  to  arrange  her  train, 
and  before  replying  to  his  question,  she  laid  each 
separate  fold  in  place.  "Why,  by  no  means,"  she 
answered,  looking  up  with  her  conventional  smile. 
"  It  would  only  mean  —  would  n't  it  ?  —  that  people 
would  begin  to  wonder  all  over  again?" 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  IRON  BARS 

As  THE  days  went  on  it  seemed  to  him  that  his 
nature,  repressed  in  so  many  other  directions,  was 
concentrated  at  last  in  a  single  channel  of  feeling. 
The  one  outlet  was  his  passion  for  Alice,  and  nothing 
that  concerned  her  was  too  remote  or  too  trival  to  en- 
gross him — her  clothes,  her  friendships,  the  particular 
chocolate  creams  for  which  she  had  once  expressed  a 
preference.  To  fill  her  life  with  amusements  that 
would  withdraw  her  erring  impulses  from  Geoffrey 
Heath  became  for  a  time  his  absorbing  purpose. 

At  first  he  told  himself  in  a  kind  of  rapture  that 
success  was  apparent  in  his  earliest  and  slightest 
efforts.  For  weeks  Alice  appeared  to  find  interest 
and  animation  in  his  presence.  She  flattered,  scolded, 
caressed  and  tyrannised,  but  with  each  day,  each 
hour,  she  grew  nearer  his  heart  and  became  more 
firmly  interwoven  into  his  life. 

Then  suddenly  a  change  came  over  her,  and  one 
day  when  she  had  been  kissing  him  with  "butterfly 
kisses"  on  his  forehead,  he  felt  her  suddenly  grow 
restless  and  draw  back  impatiently  as  if  seeking  a 
fresh  diversion.  A  bored  look  had  come  into  her 
eyes  and  he  saw  the  three  little  wrinkles  gather 
between  her  eyebrows. 

34i 


342  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Alice,"  he  said,  alarmed  by  the  swift  alteration, 
4 '  are  you  tired  of  the  house  ?  Shall  we  ride  together  ? ' ' 

She  shook  her  head,  half  pettishly,  half  playfully, 
"I  can't — I've  an  engagement,"  she  responded. 

"An  engagement?"  he  repeated  inquiringly. 
"Why,  I  thought  we  were  always  to  ride  when  it 
was  fair." 

"  I  promised  one  of  the  girls  to  go  to  tea  with  her," 
she  repeated,  after  a  minute.  "It  isn't  a  real  tea, 
but  she  wanted  to  talk  to  me,  so  I  said  I  would  go." 

"  Well,  I  'm  glad  you  did  —  don't  give  up  the  girls," 
he  answered,  relieved  at  once  by  the  explanation. 

In  the  evening  when  she  returned,  shortly  after 
dark,  "one  of  the  girls"  as  she  called  laughingly 
from  the  library,  had  come  home  for  the  night  with 
her.  Ordway  heard  them  chatting  gayly  together, 
but,  when  he  went  in  for  a  moment  before  going  up- 
stairs to  dress,  they  lapsed  immediately  into  an 
embarrassed  silence.  Alice's  visitor  was  a  pretty, 
gray-eyed,  flaxen-haired  young  woman  named  Jenny 
Lane,  who  smiled  in  a  frightened  way  and  answered 
"Yes  —  no,"  when  he  spoke  to  her,  as  if  she  offered 
him  the  choice  of  his  favourite  monosyllable  from 
her  lips.  Clearly  the  subject  which  animated  them 
was  one  in  which,  even  as  Alice's  father,  he  could 
have  no  share. 

For  weeks  after  this  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  silence 
fell  gradually  between  them — that  silence  of  the  heart 
which  is  so  much  more  oppressive  than  the  mere  out- 
ward silence  of  the  lips.  It  was  not,  he  told  himself 
again  and  again,  that  there  had  come  a  perceptible 


THE    IRON    BARS  343 

change  in  her  manner.  She  still  met  him  at  breakfast 
with  her  flower  and  her  caress,  still  flung  herself  into 
his  arms  at  unexpected  moments,  still  coaxed  and  up- 
braided in  her  passionate,  childish  voice.  Neverthe- 
less, the  difference  was  there,  and  he  recognised  it 
with  a  pang  even  while  he  demanded  of  himself  in 
what  breathless  suspension  of  feeling  it  could  consist  ? 
Her  caresses  were  as  frequent,  but  the  fervour,  the 
responsiveness,  had  gone  out  of  them;  and  he  was 
brought  at  last  face  to  face  with  the  knowledge  that 
her  first  vivid  delight  in  him  had  departed  forever. 
The  thing  which  absorbed  her  now  was  a  thing  in 
which  he  had  no  share,  no  recognition;  and  true  to 
her  temperament,  her  whole  impulsive  being  had 
directed  itself  into  this  new  channel.  "She  is  young 
and  it  is  only  natural  that  she  should  wish  to  have 
her  school  friends  about  her,"  he  thought  with  a  smile. 
In  the  beginning  it  had  been  an  easy  matter  to 
efface  his  personality  and  stand  out  of  the  way  of 
Alice's  life,  but  as  the  weeks  drew  on  into  months 
and  the  months  into  a  year,  he  found  that  he  had 
been  left  aside  not  only  by  his  daughter,  but  by  the 
rest  of  the  household  as  well.  In  his  home  he  felt 
himself  to  exist  presently  in  an  ignored,  yet  obvious 
way  like  a  familiar  piece  of  household  furniture, 
which  is  neither  commented  upon  nor  wilfully  over- 
looked. It  would  have  occasioned,  he  supposed, 
some  vague  exclamations  of  surprise  had  he  failed 
to  appear  in  his  proper  place  at  the  breakfast  table, 
but  as  long  as  his  accustomed  seat  was  occupied  all 
further  use  for  his  existence  seemed  at  an  end.  He 


344  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

was  not  necessary,  he  was  not  even  enjoyed,  but  he 
was  tolerated. 

Before  this  passive  indifference,  which  was  worse 
to  him  than  direct  hostility,  he  found  that  his  sym- 
pathies, his  impulses,  and  even  his  personality, 
were  invaded  by  an  apathy  that  paralysed  the  very 
sources  of  his  will.  He  beheld  himself  as  the  cause 
of  the  gloom,  the  suspicion,  the  sadness,  that  sur- 
rounded him,  and  as  the  cause,  too,  of  Alice's  wild- 
ness  and  of  the  pathetic  loneliness  in  which  Lydia  lived. 
But  for  him,  he  told  himself,  there  would  have  been 
no  shadow  upon  the  household;  and  his  wife's 
pensive  smile  was  like  a  knife  in  his  heart  whenever 
he  looked  up  from  his  place  at  the  table  and  met 
it  unawares.  At  Tappaliannock  he  had  sometimes 
believed  that  his  past  was  a  skeleton  which  he  had 
left  behind;  here  he  had  grown,  as  the  years  went 
by,  to  think  of  it  as  a  coffin  which  had  shut  over  him 
and  from  which  there  was  no  escape.  And  with 
the  realisation  of  this,  a  blighting  remorse,  a  painful 
humbleness  awoke  in  his  soul,  and  was  revealed 
outwardly  in  his  face,  in  his  walk,  in  his  embarrassed 
movements.  As  he  passed  up  and  down  the  stair- 
case, he 'went  softly  lest  the  heavy  sound  of  his 
footsteps  should  become  an  annoyance  to  Lydia's 
sensitive  ears.  His  manner  lost  its  boyish  freedom 
and  grew  awkward  and  nervous,  and  when  he  gave 
an  order  to  the  servants  it  seemed  to  him  that  a 
dreadful  timidity  sounded  in  his  voice.  He  began 
to  grow  old  suddenly  in  a  year,  before  middle  age 
had  as  yet  had  time  to  soften  the  way. 


THE   IRON   BARS  345 

Looking  in  the  glass  one  morning,  when  he  had 
been  less  than  three  years  in  Botetourt,  he  discovered 
that  the  dark  locks  upon  his  forehead  had  turned 
almost  white,  and  that  his  shoulders  were  losing 
gradually  their  youthful  erectness  of  carriage.  And 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  courage  with  which  he 
might  have  once  broken  away  and  begun  anew  had 
departed  from  him  in  this  new  and  paralysing  humil- 
ity, which  was  like  the  humility  of  a  helpless  and 
burdensome  old  age. 

After  a  day  of  peculiar  loneliness,  he  was  returning 
from  Richard's  office  on  this  same  afternoon,  when 
a  voice  called  to  him  from  beneath  the  fringed  linen 
cover  of  a  little  phaeton  which  had  driven  up  to  the 
crossing.  Turning  in  surprise  he  found  Aunt  Lucy 
holding  the  reins  over  a  fat  pony,  while  she  sat  very 
erect,  with  her  trim,  soldierly  figure  emerging  from 
a  mountain  of  brown-paper  parcels. 

"This  is  the  very  chance  I've  been  looking  for, 
Daniel  Ordway!"  she  exclaimed,  in  her  emphatic 
voice.  "Do  you  know,  sir,  that  you  have  not 
entered  my  house  once  in  the  last  three  years?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  know — but  the  fact  is  that 
I  have  hardly  been  anywhere  since  I  came  back." 

"And  why  is  that?"    she  demanded  sharply. 

He  shook  his  head,  "I  don't  know.  Perhaps  you 
can  tell  me." 

"Yes,  I  can  tell  you,"  she  snapped  back,  with  a 
rudeness  which,  in  some  singular  way,  seemed  to 
him  kinder  than  the  studied  politeness  that  he  had 
met.  "It's  because,  in  spite  of  all  you 've  gone 


346  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

through,  you  are  still  more  than  half  a  fool,  Daniel 
Ordway." 

"Oh,  you're  right,  I  dare  say,"  he  acknowledged 
bitterly. 

With  a  frown,  which  struck  him  curiously  as  the 
wrong  side  of  a  smile,  she  nodded  her  head  while 
she  made  room  for  him  among  the  brown-paper 
parcels  on  the  low  linen  covered  seat  of  the  phaeton. 
"Come  in  here,  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  she  said, 
"there's  a  little  matter  about  which  I -should  like 
your  help." 

"My  help?"  he  repeated  in  astonishment,  as  a 
sensation  of  pleasure  shot  through  his  heart.  It 
was  so  seldom  that  anybody  asked  his  help  in  Bote- 
tourt.  "Is  the  second  green  parrot  dead,  and  do 
you  want  me  to  dig  the  grave?"  he  inquired,  check- 
ing his  unseemly  derision  as  he  met  her  warning 
glance. 

"Polly  is  perfectly  well,"  she  returned,  rapping 
him  smartly  upon  the  knee  with  her  little  tightly 
closed  black  fan  which  she  carried  as  if  it  were  a 
baton,  "but  I  do  not  like  Richard  Ordway." 

The  suddenness  of  her  announcement,  following 
so  inappropriately  her  comment  upon  the  health 
of  the  green  parrot,  caused  him  to  start  from  his 
seat  in  the  amazement  with  which  he  faced  her- 
Then  he  broke  into  an  echo  of  his  old  boyish  merri- 
ment, "You  don't?"  he  retorted  flippantly.  "Well, 
Lydia  does." 

Her  eyes  blinked  rapidly  in  the  midst  of  her 
wrinkled  little  face,  and  bending  over  she  nicked 


THE    IRON    BARS  347 

the  back  of  the  fat  pony  gently  with  the  end  of  the 
whip.  "Oh,  I'm  not  sure  I  like  Lydia,"  she  re- 
sponded, "though,  of  course,  Lydia  is  a  saint." 

"Yes,  Lydia  is  a  saint,"  he  affirmed. 

"Well,  I  'm  not  talking  about  Lydia,"  she  resumed 
presently,  "though  there's  something  I  've  always 
had  a  burning  curiosity  to  find  out."  For  an  instant 
she  held  back,  and  then  made  her  charge  with  a  kind 
of  desperate  courage.  "Is  she  really  a  saint?" 
she  questioned  "or  is  it  only  the  way  that  she  wears 
her  hair?" 

Her  question  was  so  like  the  spoken  sound  of  his 
own  dreadful  suspicion  that  it  took  away  his  breath 
completely,  while  he  stared  at  her  with  a  gasp  that 
was  evenly  divided  between  a  laugh  and  a  groan. 

"Oh,  she's  a  saint,  there's  no  doubt  of  that, "he 
insisted  loyally. 

"Then  I  '11  let  her  rest,"  she  replied,  "and  I  'm  glad, 
heaven  knows,  to  have  my  doubts  at  an  end.  But 
where  do  you  imagine  that  I  am  taking  you?" 

"For  a  drive,  I  hope,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"It 'snot,"  she  rejoined  grimly,  "it 's  for  a  visit." 

"A  visit?"  he  repeated,  starting  up  with  the  im- 
pulse to  jump  over  the  moving  wheel,  "but  I  never 
visit." 

She  reached  out  her  wiry  little  fingers,  which 
clung  like  a  bird's  claw,  and  drew  him  by  force  back 
upon  the  seat. 

"I  am  taking  you  to  see  Adam  Crowley,"  she 
explained,  "do  you  remember  him?" 

"Crowley?"  he  repeated  the  name  as  he  searched 


348  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

his  memory.  "Why,  yes,  he  was  my  father's  clerk 
for  forty  years,  wasn't  he  ?  I  asked  when  I  came  home 
what  had  become  of  him.  So  he  is  still  living?" 

"He  was  paralysed  in  one  arm  some  years  ago, 
and  it  seems  he  has  lost  all  his  savings  in  some  in- 
vestment your  father  had  advised  him  to  make. 
Of  course,  there  was  no  legal  question  of  a  debt  to 
him,  but  until  the  day  your  father  died  he  had  always 
made  ample  provision  for  the  old  man's  support. 
Crowley  had  always  believed  that  the  allowance 
would  be  continued  —  that  there  would  be  a  mention 
made  of  him  in  the  will." 

"And  there  was  none?" 

"It  was  an  oversight,  Crowley  is  still  convinced,, 
for  he  says  he  had  a  distinct  promise." 

"Then  surely  my  uncle  will  fulfil  the  trust?  He 
is  an  honourable  man." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  know  that  he  is 
so  much  'honourable'  as  he  is  'lawful.'  The  written 
obligation  is  the  one  which  binds  him  like  steel, 
but  I  don't  think  he  cares  whether  a  thing  is  right 
or  wrong,  just  or  unjust,  as  long  as  it  is  the  law. 
The  letter  holds  him,  but  I  doubt  if  he  has  ever 
even  felt  the  motion  of  the  spirit.  If  he  ever  felt 
it,"  she  concluded  with  grim  humour,  "he  would 
probably  try  to  drive  it  out  with  quinine." 

"Are  we  going  there  now  —  to  see  Crowley,  I 
mean?" 

"If  you  don't  mind.  Of  course  there  may  be 
nothing  that  you  can  do — but  I  thought  that  you 
might,  perhaps,  speak  to  Richard  about  it." 


THE    IRON   BARS  349 

He  shook  his  head,  "No,  I  can't  speak  to  my 
uncle,  though  I  think  you  are  unjust  to  him,"  he 
answered,  after  a  pause  in  which  the  full  joy  of  her 
appeal  had  swept  through  his  heart,  "but  I  have  an 
income  of  my  own,  you  know,  and  out  of  this,  I  can 
help  Crowley." 

For  an  instant  she  did  not  reply,  and  he  felt  her 
thin,  upright  little  figure  grow  rigid  at  his  side. 
Then  turning  with  a  start,  she  laid  her  hand,  in  its 
black  lace  mitten,  upon  his  knee. 

"O  my  boy,  you  are  your  mother  all  over  again!" 
she  said. 

After  this  they  drove  on  in  silence  down  one  of 
the  shaded  streets,  where  rows  of  neat  little  houses, 
packed  together  like  pasteboard  boxes,  were  divided 
from  the  unpaved  sidewalks  by  low  whitewashed 
fences.  At  one  of  these  doors  the  phaeton  presently 
drew  up,  and  dropping  the  reins  on  the  pony's  back, 
Aunt  Lucy  alighted  with  a  bound  between  the 
wheels,  and  began  with  Ordway's  help,  to  remove 
the  paper  parcels  from  the  seat.  When  their  arms 
were  full,  she  pushed  open  the  gate,  and  led  him 
up  the  short  walk  to  the  door  where  an  old  man, 
wearing  a  knitted  shawl,  sat  in  an  invalid's  chair 
beyond  the  threshold.  At  the  sound  of  their  foot- 
steps Crowley  turned  on  them  a  cheerful  wrinkled 
face  which  was  brightened  by  a  pair  of  twinkling 
black  eyes  that  gave  him  an  innocent  and  merry 
look. 

"I  knew  you'd  come  around/'  he  said,  smiling 
with  his  toothless  mouth  like  an  amiable  infant. 


350  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"  Matildy  has  been  complaining  that  the  coffee  gave 
out  at  breakfast,  but  I  said  't  was  only  a  sign  that 
you  were  coming.  Everything  bad  is  the  sign  of 
something  good,  that 's  what  I  say." 

"I  Ve  brought  something  better  than  coffee  to-day, 
Adam,"  replied  Aunt  Lucy,  seating  herself  upon  the 
doorstep.  "This  is  Daniel  Ordway  —  do  you  re- 
member him?" 

The  old  man  bent  forward,  without  moving 
his  withered  hand,  which  lay  outstretched  on  the 
cushioned  arm  of  the  chair,  and  it  seemed  to 
Ordway  that  the  smiling  black  eyes  pierced  to  his 
heart.  "Oh,  I  remember  him,  I  remember  him," 
said  Crowly,  "poor  boy  —  poor  boy." 

"He's  come  back  now,"  rejoined  Aunt  Lucy, 
raising  her  voice,  "and  he  has  come  to  see  you." 

"He  's  like  his  mother,"  remarked  Crowley,  almost 
in  a  whisper,  "and  I  'm  glad  of  that,  though  his  father 
was  a  good  man.  But  there  are  some  good  people 
who  do  more  harm  than  bad  ones,"  he  added,  "and 
I  always  knew  that  old  Daniel  Ordway  would  ruin 
his  son."  A  chuckle  broke  from  him,  "but  your 
mother:  I  can  see  her  now  running  out  bareheaded 
in  the  snow  to  scold  me  for  not  having  on  my  over- 
coat. She  was  always  seeing  with  other  people's 
eyes,  bless  her,  and  feeling  with  other  people's  bodies." 

Dropping  upon  the  doorstep,  Ordway  replaced  the 
knitted  shawl  which  had  slipped  from  the  old  man's 
shoulder.  "  I  wonder  how  it  is  that  you  keep  so  happy 
in  spite  of  everything? "  he  said. 

"  Happy  ? "  repeated  Crowley  with  a  laugh.     "Well, 


THE   IRON   BARS  351 

I  don't  know,  but  I  am  not  complaining.  I  Ve  seen 
men  who  had  n't  an  ache  in  their  bodies,  who  were 
worse  off  than  I  am  to-day.  I  tell  you  it  is  n't  the 
thing  that  comes  to  you,  but  the  way  you  look  at 
it  that  counts,  and  because  you  Ve  got  a  paralysed 
arm  is  no  reason  that  you  should  have  a  paralysed 
heart  as  well.  I  've  had  a  powerful  lot  of  suffering, 
but  I  've  had  a  powerful  lot  of  happiness,  too,  and 
the  suffering  somehow,  does  n't  seem  to  come  inside 
of  me  to  stay  as  the  happiness  does.  You  see,  I  'm 
a  great  believer  in  the  Lord,  sir,"  he  added  simply, 
"and  what  I  can't  understand,  I  don't  bother  about, 
but  just  take  on  trust."  All  the  cheerful  wrinkles 
of  his  face  shone  peacefully  as  he  talked.  "It's 
true  there  've  been  times  when  things  have  gone  so 
hard  I  've  felt  that  I  'd  just  let  go  and  drop  down  to 
the  bottom,  but  the  wonderful  part  is  that  when 
you  get  to  the  bottom  there  's  still  something  down 
below  you.  It 's  when  you  fall  lowest  that  you  feel 
most  the  Lord  holding  you  up.  It  may  be  that  there 
ain't  any  bottom  after  all  but  I  know  if  there  is  one 
the  Lord  is  surely  waiting  down  there  to  catch  you 
when  you  let  go.  He  ain't  only  there,  I  reckon, 
but  He  's  in  all  the  particular  hard  places  on  earth 
much  oftener  than  He 's  up  in  His  heaven.  He 
knows  the  poorhouse,  you  may  be  sure,  and  He  11 
be  there  to  receive  me  and  tell  me  it  ain't  so  bad  as 
it  looks.  I  don't  want  to  get  there,  but  if  I  do  it  will 
come  a  bit  easier  to  think  that  the  Lord  has  been 

there  before  me " 

The  look  in  his  smiling,  toothless  face  brought  to 


352  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

Ordway,  as  he  watched  him,  the  memory  of  the 
epileptic  little  preacher  who  had  preached  in  the 
prison  chapel.  Here,  also,  was  that  untranslatable 
rapture  of  the  mystic,  which  cannot  be  put  into 
words  though  it  passes  silently  in  its  terrible  joy  from 
the  heart  of  the  speaker  to  the  other  heart  that  is 
waiting.  Again  he  felt  his  whole  being  dissolve  in 
the  emotion  which  had  overflowed  his  eyes  that  Sun- 
day when  he  was  a  prisoner.  He  remembered  the 
ecstasy  with  which  he  had  said  to  himself  on  that 
day:  " I  have  found  the  key! "  and  he  knew  now  that 
this  ecstasy  was  akin  to  the  light  that  had  shone  for 
him  while  he  sat  on  the  stage  of  the  town  hall  in 
Tappahannock.  A  chance  word  from  the  lips  of  a 
doting  old  man,  who  saw  the  doors  of  the  poorhouse 
swing  open  to  receive  him,  had  restored  to  Ordway, 
with  a  miraculous  clearness,  the  vision  that  he  had 
lost;  and  he  felt  suddenly  that  the  hope  with  which 
he  had  come  out  of  the  prison  had  never  really 
suffered  disappointment  or  failure. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  VISION  AND  THE  FACT 

As  HE  walked  home  along  one  of  the  side  streets,, 
shaded  by  an  irregular  row  of  flowering  linden  trees, 
it  appeared  to  him  that  his  life  in  Botetourt,  so  unen- 
durable an  hour  before,  had  been  rendered  suddenly 
easy  by  a  miracle,  not  in  his  surroundings,  but  in 
himself.  His  help  had  been  asked,  and  in  the  act  of 
giving  there  had  flowed  back  into  his  heart  the 
strength  by  which  he  might  live  his  daily  life.  His 
unrest,  his  loneliness,  his  ineffectiveness,  showed  to 
him  now  as  the  result  of  some  fatal  weakness  in  his 
own  nature  —  some  failure  in  his  personal  attitude  to 
the  people  among  whom  he  lived. 

Straight  ahead  of  him  a  fine  white  dust  drifted 
down  from  the  blossoming  lindens,  lying  like  powder 
on  the  roughly  paved  street,  where  the  wind  blew  it 
in  soft  swirls  and  eddies  against  the  crumbling  stone 
steps  which  led  down  from  the  straight  doorways  of 
the  old-fashioned  houses.  The  boughs  overhead 
made  a  green  arch  through  which  the  light  fell,  and 
it  was  under  this  thick  tent  of  leaves,  that,  looking 
up  presently,  he  saw  Emily  Brooke  coming  toward 
him.  Not  until  she  was  so  close  to  him  that  he 
could  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress,  did  she  lift  her 
eyes  from  the  pavement  and  meet  his  cry  of  welcome 
with  a  look  of  joyful  surprise. 

353 


354  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Emily!"  he  cried,  and  at  his  voice,  she  stretched 
out  her  hand  and  stood  smiling  at  him  with  the 
soft  and  animated  gaze  which,  it  seemed  to  him  now, 
he  had  but  dimly  remembered.  The  thought  of 
her  had  dwelt  as  a  vision  in  his  memory,  yet  he  knew, 
as  he  looked  into  her  face,  that  the  ideal  figure  had 
lacked  the  charm,  the  radiance,  the  sparkling  eneigy, 
of  the  living  substance. 

"So  you  came  to  Botetourt  and  did  not  send  me 
word,"  he  said. 

"No,  I  did  not  send  you  word,"  she  answered, 
44 and  now  I  am  leaving  within  an  hour." 

"And  you  would  have  gone  without  seeing  me?" 

For  an  instant  she  hesitated,  and  he  watched  the 
joy  in  her  face  melt  into  a  sorrowful  tenderness. 
4<I  knew  that  you  were  well  and  I  was  satisfied. 
Would  it  have  been  kind  to  appear  to  you  like  an 
arisen  ghost  of  Tappahannock?" 

"The  greatest  kindness,"  he  answered  gravely, 
"that  you  —  or  anyone  could  do  me." 

She  shook  her  head:  "Kindness  or  not,  I  found 
that  I  could  not  do  it." 

"And  you  go  in  an  hour?" 

"My  train  leaves  at  seven  o'clock.  Is  it  nearly 
that?" 

He  drew  out  his  watch,  a  mechanical  action  which 
relieved  the  emotional  tension  that  stretched  like 
a  drawn  cord  between  them.  "It  is  not  yet  six. 
Will  you  walk  a  little  way  with  me  down  this  street  ? 
There  is  still  time." 

As   she  nodded   silently,   they   turned   and  went 


THE   VISION   AND   THE    FACT          355 

back  along  the  side  street,  under  the  irregular  rows 
of  lindens,  in  the  direction  from  which  he  had  come. 

"  One  of  the  girls  I  used  to  teach  sent  for  me  when 
she  was  dying,"  she  said  presently,  as  if  feeling 
the  need  of  some  explanation  of  her  presence  in 
Botetourt.  "That  was  three  days  ago  and  the 
funeral  was  yesterday.  It  is  a  great  loss  to  me, 
for  I  have  n't  so  many  friends  that  I  can  spare  the 
few  I  love." 

He  made  no  answer  to  her  remark,  and  in  the 
silence  that  followed,  he  felt,  with  a  strange  ache 
at  his  heart,  that  the  distance  that  separated  them 
was  greater  than  it  had  been  when  she  was  in  Tap- 
pahannock  and  he  in  Botetourt.  Then  there  had 
stretched  only  the  luminous  dream  spaces  between 
their  souls;  now  they  stood  divided  by  miles  and 
miles  of  an  immovable  reality.  Was  it  possible  that 
in  making  her  a  part  of  his  intense  inner  life,  he  had 
lost,  in  a  measure,  his  consciousness  of  her  actual 
existence  ?  Then  while  the  vision  still  struggled 
blindly  against  the  fact,  she  turned  toward  him 
with  a  smile  which  lifted  her  once  more  into  the 
shining  zone  of  spirits. 

"If  I  can  feel  that  you  are  happy,  that  you  are 
at  peace,  I  shall  ask  nothing  more  of  God,"  she 
said. 

"I  am  happy  to-day,"  he  answered,  "but  if  you 
had  come  yesterday,  I  should  have  broken  down  in 
my  weakness.  Oh,  I  have  been  homesick  for  Tap- 
pahannock  since  I  came  away!" 

"Yet  Botetourt  is  far  prettier  to  my  eyes." 


356  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"To  mine  also  —  but  it  isn't  beauty,  it  is  useful- 
ness that  I  need.  For  the  last  two  years  I  have 
told  myself  night  and  day  that  I  had  no  place  and 
no  purpose  —  that  I  was  the  stone  that  the  builders 
rejected." 

"And  it  is  different  now? " 

"Different?  Yes,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  shoved 
suddenly  into  a  place  where  I  fitted  —  as  if  I  were 
meant,  after  all,  to  help  hold  things  together.  And 
the  change  came  —  how  do  you  think?"  he  asked, 
smiling.  "A  man  wanted  money  of  me  to  keep 
him  out  of  the  poorhouse." 

The  old  gaiety  was  in  his  voice,  but  as  she  looked 
at  him  a  ray  of  faint  sunshine  fell  on  his  face  through 
a  parting  in  the  leaves  overhead,  and  she  saw  for  the 
first  time  how  much  older  he  had  grown  since  that 
last  evening  in  Tappahannock.  The  dark  hair  was 
all  gray  now,  the  lines  of  the  nose  were  sharper,  the 
cheek  bones  showed  higher  above  the  bluish  hollows 
beneath.  Yet  the  change  which  had  so  greatly  aged 
him  had  deepened  the  peculiar  sweetness  in  the 
curves  of  his  mouth,  and  this  sweetness,  which  was 
visible  also  in  his  rare  smile,  moved  her  heart  to  a 
tenderness  which  was  but  the  keener  agony  of  re- 
nouncement. 

"I  know  how  it  is,"  she  said  slowly,  "just  as  in 
Tappahannock  you  found  your  happiness  in  giving 
yourself  to  others,  so  you  will  find  it  here." 

"If  I  can  only  be  of  use  —  perhaps." 

"You  can  be  —  you  will  be.  What  you  were  with 
-tis,  you  will  be  again." 


THE   VISION   AND   THE    FACT          357 

"Yet  it  was  different.  There  I  had  your  help, 
hadn't  I?" 

"And  you  shall  have  it  here,"  she  responded, 
brightly,  though  he  saw  tha.t  her  eyes  were  dim 
with  tears. 

"Will  you  make  me  a  promise?"  he  asked,  stop- 
ping suddenly  before  some  discoloured  stone  steps 
"will  you  promise  me  that  if  ever  you  need  a  friend 
—  a  strong  arm,  a  brain  to  think  for  you — you  will 
send  me  word?" 

She  looked  at  him  smiling,  while  her  tears  fell 
from  her  eyes.  "I  will  make  no  promise  that  is  not 
for  your  sake  as  well  as  for  mine,"  she  answered. 

"But  it  is  for  my  sake  —  it  is  for  my  happiness." 

"Then  I  will  promise,"  she  rejoined  gravely,  "and 
I  will  keep  it." 

"  I  thank  you,"  he  responded,  taking  the  hand  that 
she  held  out. 

At  his  words  she  had  turned  back,  pausing  a  mo- 
ment in  her  walk,  as  if  she  had  caught  from  his  voice 
or  his  look  a  sense  of  finality  in  their  parting.  "I 
have  but  a  few  minutes  left,"  she  said,  "so  I  must 
walk  rapidly  back  or  I  shall  be  late." 

A  sudden  clatter  of  horses' hoofs  on  the  cobblestones 
in  the  street  caused  them  to  start  away  from  each 
other,  and  turning  his  head,  Ordway  saw  Alice  gallop 
furiously  past  him  with  Geoffrey  Heath  at  her  side. 

"How  beautiful!"  exclaimed  Emily  beneath  her 
breath,  for  Alice  as  she  rode  by  had  looked  back  for 
an  instant,  her  glowing  face  framed  in  blown  masses 
of  hair. 


358  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Yes,  she  is  beautiful,"  he  replied,  and  added 
after  a  moment  as  they  walked  on,  "she  is  my 
daughter." 

Her  face  brightened  witn  pleasure.  "Then  you 
are  happy  —  you  must  be  happy,"  she  said.  "Why, 
she  looked  like  Brunhilde." 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated.  "Yes,"  he  answered 
at  last,  "she  is  very  beautiful  —  and  I  am  happy." 

After  this  they  did  not  speak  again  until  they 
reached  the  iron  gate  before  the  house  in  which  she 
was  staying.  On  his  side  he  was  caught  up  into 
some  ideal  realm  of  feeling,  in  which  he  possessed 
her  so  utterly  that  the  meeting  could  not  bring  her 
nearer  to  him  nor  the  parting  take  her  farther  away. 
His  longing,  his  unrest,  and  his  failure,  were  a  part 
of  his  earthly  nature  which  he  seemed  to  have  left 
below  him  in  that  other  life  from  which  he  had  escaped. 
Without  doubt  he  would  descend  to  it  again,  as  he 
had  descended  at  moments  back  into  the  body  of 
his  sin;  but  in  the  immediate  exaltation  of  his  rnood, 
his  love  had  passed  the  bounds  of  personality  and 
entered  into  a  larger  and  freer  world.  When  they 
parted,  presently,  after  a  casual  good-bye,  he  could 
persuade  himself,  almost  without  effort,  that  she 
went  on  with  him  in  the  soft  May  twilight. 

At  his  door  he  found  Lydia  just  returning  from  a 
drive,  and  taking  her  wraps  from  her  arm,  he  ascended 
the  steps  and  entered  the  house  at  her  side.  She 
had  changed  her  mourning  dress  for  a  gown  of  pale 
gray  cloth,  and  he  noticed  at  once  that  her  beauty 
had  lost  in  transparency  and  become  more  human. 


THE   VISION   AND   THE   FACT          359 

"I  thought  you  had  gone  riding  with  Alice,"  she 
said  without  looking  at  him,  as  she  stooped  to  gather 
up  the  ends  of  a  lace  scarf  which  had  slipped  from 
her  arm. 

"No,  I  was  not  with  her,"  he  answered.  "I 
wanted  to  go,  but  she  would  not  let  me." 

"Are  you  sure,  then,  that  she  was  not  with  Geoffrey 
Heath?" 

"I  am  sure  that  she  was  with  him,  for  they  passed 
me  not  a  half  hour  ago  as  I  came  up." 

They  had  entered  the  library  while  he  spoke,  and 
crossing  to  the  hearth,  where  a  small  fire  burned, 
Lydia  looked  up  at  him  with  her  anxious  gaze.  "I 
hoped  at  first  that  you  would  gain  some  influence 
over  her,"  she  said,  in  a  distressed  voice,  "but  it 
seems  now  that  she  is  estranged  even  from  you." 

"Not  estranged,  but  there  is  a  difference  and  I 
am  troubled  by  it.  She  is  young,  you  see,  and  I 
am  but  a  dull  and  sober  companion  for  her." 

She  shook  her  head  with  the  little  hopeless  ges- 
ture which  was  so  characteristic  of  her.  Only  yes- 
terday this  absence  of  resolution,  the  discontented 
droop  of  her  thin,  red  lips,  had  worked  him  into  a 
feeling  of  irritation  against  her.  But  his  vision  of 
her  to-day  had  passed  through  some  softening  lens; 
and  he  saw  her  shallowness,  her  vanity,  her  lack  of 
passion,  as  spiritual  infirmities  which  were  not  less 
to  be  pitied  than  an  infirmity  of  the  body. 

"The  end  is  not  yet,  though,"  he  added  cheer- 
fully after  a  moment,  "and  she  will  come  back  to 
me  in  time  when  I  am  able  really  to  help  her." 


360  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Meanwhile  is  she  to  be  left  utterly  uncontrolled?" 

"Not  if  we  can  do  otherwise.  Only  we  must  go 
quietly  and  not  frighten  her  too  much." 

Again  she  met  his  words  with  the  resigned,  hope- 
less movement  of  her  pretty  head  in  its  pearl  gray 
bonnet.  "I  have  done  all  I  can,"  she  said,  "and  it 
has  been  worse  than  useless.  Now  you  must  try  if 
your  method  is  better  than  mine." 

"I  am  trying,"  he  answered  smiling. 

For  an  instant  her  gaze  fluttered  irresolutely  over 
him,  as  if  she  were  moved  by  a  passing  impulse 
to  a  deeper  utterance.  That  this  impulse  concerned 
Alice  he  was  vaguely  aware,  for  when  had  his  wife 
ever  spoken  to  him  upon  a  subject  more  directly 
personal?  Apart  from  their  children  he  knew  there 
was  no  bond  between  them  —  no  memories,  no  hopes, 
no  ground  even  for  the  building  of  a  common  interest, 
Lydia  adored  her  children,  he  still  believed,  but  when 
there  was  nothing  further  to  be  said  of  Dick  or  of  Alice, 
their  conversation  flagged  upon  the  most  trivial  topics. 
Upon  the  few  unfortunate  occasions  when  he  had 
attempted  to  surmount  the  barrier  between  them, 
she  had  appeared  to  dissolve,  rather  than  to  retreat, 
before  his  approach.  Yet  despite  her  soft,  cloud- 
like  exterior,  he  had  discovered  that  the  rigour  of  her 
repulsion  had  hardened  to  a  vein  of  iron  in  her  nature. 
What  must  her  life  be,  he  demanded  in  a  sudden 
passion  of  pity,  when  the  strongest  emotion  she  had 
ever  known  was  the  aversion  that  she  now  felt 
to  him?  All  the  bitterness  in  his  heart  melted 
into  compassion  at  the  thought,  and  he  resisted  an 


THE   VISION   AND   THE    FACT          361 

impulse  to  take  her  into  his  arms  and  say:  "1  know, 
I  understand,  and  I  am  sorry."  Yet  he  was  perfectly 
aware  that  if  he  were  to  do  this,  she  would  only 
shrink  farther  away  from  him,  and  look  up  at  him 
with  fear  and  mystification,  as  if  she  suspected 
him  of  some  hidden  meaning, of  some  strategic  move- 
ment against  her  impregnable  reserve.  Her  whole 
relation  to  him  had  narrowed  into  the  single  instinct 
of  self-defence.  If  he  came  unconsciously  a  step 
nearer,  if  he  accidentally  touched  her  hand  as  he 
passed,  he  had  grown  to  expect  the  flaring  of 
her  uncontrollable  repugnance  in  the  heightened 
red  in  her  cheeks.  "I  know  that  I  am  repulsive 
to  her,  that  when  she  looks  at  me  she  still  sees  the 
convict,"  he  thought,  ''and  yet  the  knowledge  of 
this  only  adds  to  the  pity  and  tenderness  I  feel." 

Lydia  had  moved  through  the  doorway,  but  turn- 
ing back  in  the  hall,  she  spoke  with  a  return  of  con- 
fidence, as  if  the  fact  of  the  threshold,  which  she 
had  put  between  them,  had  restored  to  her,  in  a  meas- 
ure, the  advantage  that  she  had  lost. 

"Then  I  shall  leave  Alice  in  your  hands.  I  can 
do  nothing  more,"  she  said. 

"Give  me  time  and  I  will  do  all  that  you  cannot," 
he  answered. 

When  she  had  gone  upstairs,  he  crossed  the  hall 
to  the  closed  door  of  the  library,  and  stopped  short 
on  hearing  Alice's  voice  break  out  into  song.  The 
girl  was  still  in  her  riding  habit,  and  the  gay  French 
air  on  her  lips  was  in  accord  with  the  spirited  gesture 
with  which  she  turned  to  him  as  he  appeared.  Her 


362  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

beauty  would  have  disarmed  him  even  without  the 
kiss  with  which  she  hastened  to  avert  his  reproach. 

"Alice,  can  you  kiss  me  when  you  know  you  have 
broken  your  promise?" 

"I  made  no  promise ,"  she  answered  coldly,  draw- 
ing away.  "You  told  me  not  to  go  riding  with 
Geoffrey,  but  it  was  you  that  said  it,  not  I,  and  you 
said  it  only  because  mamma  made  you.  Oh,  I  knew 
all  the  time  that  it  was  she! " 

Her  voice  broke  with  anger  and  before  he  could 
restrain  her,  she  ran  from  the  room  and  up  the  stair- 
case. An  instant  afterward  he  heard  a  door  slam 
violently  above  his  head.  Was  she  really  in  love 
with  Geoffrey  Heath?  he  asked  in  alarm,  or  was  the 
passion  she  had  shown  merely  the  outburst  of  an  un- 
disciplined child? 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  WEAKNESS  IN  STRENGTH 

AT  BREAKFAST  Alice  did  not  appear,  and  when  he 
went  upstairs  to  her  room,  she  returned  an  answer 
in  a  sullen  voice  through  her  closed  door.  All  day 
his  heart  was  oppressed  by  the  thought  of  her,  but 
to  his  surprise,  when  he  came  home  to  luncheon, 
she  met  him  on  the  steps  with  a  smiling  face.  It 
was  evident  to  him  at  the  first  glance  that  she  meant 
to  ignore  both  the  cause  and  the  occasion  of  last 
evening's  outburst;  and  he  found  himself  yielding 
to  her  determination  before  he  realised  all  that  his 
evasion  of  the  subject  must  imply.  But  while  she 
hung  upon  his  neck,  with  her  cheek  pressed  to  his, 
it  was  impossible  that  he  should  speak  any  word  that 
would  revive  her  anger  against  him.  Anything 
was  better  than  the  violence  with  which  she  had 
parted  from  him  the  evening  before.  He  could  never 
forget  his  night  of  anguish,  when  he  had  strained 
his  ears  unceasingly  for  some  stir  in  her  room,  hoping 
that  a  poignant  realisation  of  his  love  for  her  would 
bring  her  sobbing  and  penitent  to  his  door  before 
dawn. 

Now  when  he  saw  her  again  for  the  first  time,  she 
had  apparently  forgotten  the  parting  which  had  so 
tortured  his  heart. 

363 


364  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"You  Ve  been  working  too  hard,  papa,  and  you  're 
tired,"  she  remarked,  rubbing  the  furrows  between 
his  eyebrows  in  a  vain  endeavour  to  smooth  them 
out.  "Are  you  obliged  to  go  back  to  that  hateful 
office  this  afternoon?" 

"I  Ve  some  work  that  will  keep  me  there  until 
dark,  I  fear,"  he  replied.  "It  's  a  pity  because  I  'd 
like  a  ride  of  all  things." 

"It  is  a  pity,  poor  dear,"  protested  Alice,  but  he 
noticed  that  there  was  no  alteration  in  her  sparkling 
gaiety.  Was  there,  indeed,  almost  a  hint  of  relief 
in  her  tone?  and  was  this  demonstrative  embrace 
but  a  guarded  confession  of  her  gratitude  for  his 
absence?  Something  in  her  manner — a  veiled  ex- 
citement in  her  look,  a  subtle  change  in  her  voice 
— caused  him  to  hold  her  to  him  in  a  keener  tender- 
ness. It  was  on  his  lips  to  beg  for  her  confidence,  to 
remind  her  of  his  sympathy  in  whatever  she  might 
feel  or  think — to  assure  her  even  of  his  tolerance 
of  Geoffrey  Heath.  But  in  the  instant  when  he  was 
about  to  speak,  a  sudden  recollection  of  the  look 
with  which  she  had  turned  from  him  last  evening, 
checked  the  impulse  before  it  had  had  time  to 
pass  into  words.  And  so  because  of  his  terror  of 
losing  her,  he  let  her  go  at  last  in  silence  from  his 
arms. 

His  office  work  that  afternoon  was  heavier  than 
usual,  for  in  the  midst  of  his  mechanical  copying 
and  filing,  he  was  abstracted  by  the  memory  of  that 
strange,  unnatural  vivacity  in  Alice's  face.  Then 
in  the  effort  to  banish  the  disturbing  recollection, 


THE   WEAKNESS    IN   STRENGTH       365 

he  recalled  old  Adam  Crowley,  wrapped  in  his  knitted 
shawl,  on  the  doorstep  of  his  cottage.  A  check  of 
Richard's  contributing  six  hundred  dollars  toward 
the  purchase  of  a  new  organ  for  the  church  he  attended 
gave  Daniel  his  first  opportunity  to  mention  the 
old  man  to  his  uncle. 

"  I  saw  Crowley  the  other  day,"  he  began  abruptly, 
"the  man  who  was  my  father's  clerk  for  forty  years, 
and  whose  place,"  he  added  smiling,  "I  seem  to 
have  filled." 

"Ah,  indeed,"  remarked  Richard  quietly.  "So 
he  is  still  living?  " 

"His  right  arm  has  been  paralysed,  as  you  know, 
and  he  is  very  poor.  All  his  savings  were  lost  in 
some  investments  he  made  by  my  father's  advice." 

"So  I  have  heard — it  was  most  unfortunate." 

"He  had  always  been  led  to  believe,  I  understand, 
that  he  would  be  provided  for  by  my  father's  will." 

Richard  laid  down  his  pen  and  leaned  thought- 
fully back  in  his  chair.  "He  has  told  me  so,"  he 
rejoined,  "but  we  have  only  his  word  for  it,  as  there 
was  no  memorandum  concerning  him  among  my 
brother's  papers." 

"But  surely  it  was  well  known  that  father  had 
given  him  a  pension.  Aunt  Lucy  was  perfectly 
aware  of  it — they  talked  of  it  together." 

"During  his  lifetime  he  did  pay  Crowley  a  small 
monthly  allowance  in  consideration  of  his  past  ser- 
vices. But  his  will  was  an  extremely  careful  docu- 
ment— his  bequests  are  all  made  in  a  perfectly 
legal  form." 


366  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"Was  not  this  will  made  some  years  ago,  how- 
ever, before  the  old  man  became  helpless  and  lost 
his  money?" 

Richard  nodded:  "I  understood  as  much  from 
Crowley  when  he  came  to  me  with  his  complaint. 
But,  as  I  reminded  him,  it  would  have  been  a 
perfectly  simple  matter  for  Daniel  to  have  made 
such  a  bequest  in  a  codicil  —  as  he  did  in  your 
case,"  he  concluded  deliberately. 

The  younger  man  met  his  gaze  without  flinching. 
"The  will,  I  believe,  was  written  while  I  was  in 
prison,"  he  observed. 

"Upon  the  day  following  your  conviction.  By 
a  former  will,  which  he  then  destroyed,  he  had  be- 
queathed to  you  his  entire  estate.  You  understand, 
of  course,"  he  pursued,  after  a  pause  in  which  he 
had  given  his  nephew  full  time  to  possess  himself 
of  the  information,  as  well  as  of  the  multiplied  sug- 
gestions that  he  had  offered,  "that  the  income  you 
receive  now  comes  from  money  that  is  legally  your 
own.  If  it  should  ever  appear  advisable  for  me  to 
do  so,  I  am  empowered  to  make  over  to  you  the  sum 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  in  securi- 
ties. The  principal  is  left  in  my  hands  merely  be- 
cause it  is  to  your  interest  that  I  should  keep  an  eye 
on  the  investments." 

"Yes,  I  understand,  and  I  understand,  too,  that 
tut  for  your  insistence  my  father  would  probably 
have  left  me  nothing." 

"I  felt  very  strongly  that  he  had  no  right  to 
disinherit  you,"  returned  Richard.  "In  my  eyes 


THE   WEAKNESS   IN    STRENGTH       367 

he  made  a  grave  mistake  in  refusing  to  lend  you 
support  at  your  trial " 

"As  you  did,  I  acknowledge  gratefully,"  inter- 
rupted Daniel,  and  wondered  why  the  fact  had 
aroused  in  him  so  little  appreciation.  As  far  as  the 
observance  of  the  conventional  virtues  were  con- 
cerned, Richard  Ordway,  he  supposed,  was,  and  had 
been  all  his  life,  a  good  man,  yet  something  in  his 
austere  excellence  froze  instantly  all  the  gentler 
impulses  in  his  nephew's  heart.  It  was  impossible 
after  this  to  mention  again  the  subject  of  Crowley, 
so  going  back  to  his  work,  he  applied  himself  to  his 
copying  until  Richard  put  down  his  papers  and  left 
the  office.  Then  he  locked  his  desk  wearily  and 
followed  his  uncle  out  into  the  street. 

A  soft  May  afternoon  was  just  closing,  and  the 
street  lamps  glimmered,  here  and  there,  like 
white  moths  out  of  the  mist  which  was  fragrant 
with  honeysuckle  and  roses.  An  old  lamplighter, 
who  was  descending  on  his  ladder  from  a  tall  lamp- 
post at  the  corner,  looked  down  at  Ordway  with  a 
friendly  and  merry  face. 

"The  days  will  soon  be  so  long  that  you  won't 
be  needing  us  to  light  you  home,"  he  remarked,  as 
he  came  down  gingerly,  his  hands  grasping  the  rungs 
of  the  ladder  above  his  head.  When  he  landed  at 
Daniel's  side  he  began  to  tell  him  in  a  pleasant,  gar- 
rulous voice  about  his  work,  his  rheumatism  and  the 
strange  sights  that  he  had  seen  in  his  rounds  for  so 
many  years.  "I've  seen  wonders  in  my  day,  you 
may  believe  it,"  he  went  on,  chuckling,  "I  've  seen 


368  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

babies  in  carriages  that  grew  up  to  be  brides  in  orange 
blossoms,  and  then  went  by  me  later  as  corpses  in 
hearses.  I  've  seen  this  town  when  it  warn't  mo'n 
a  little  middlin'  village,  and  I  've  seen  soldiers  dyin' 
in  blood  in  this  very  street."  A  train  went  by 
with  a  rush  along  the  gleaming  track  that  ran  through 
the  town.  "An'  I  've  known  the  time  when  a  sight 
like  that  would  have  skeered  folks  to  death/' he  added. 

For  a  minute  Ordway  looked  back,  almost  wist- 
fully, after  the  flying  train.  Then  with  a  friendly 
"good-bye!"  he  parted  from  the  lamplighter  and 
went  on  his  way. 

When  he  reached  home  he  half  expected  tc  find 
Alice  waiting  for  him  in  the  twilight  on  the  piazza, 
but,  to  his  surprise,  Lydia  met  him  as  he  entered  the 
hall  and  asked  him,  in  a  voice  which  sounded  as  if 
she  were  speaking  in  the  presence  of  servants,  to 
come  with  her  into  the  library.  There  she  closed 
the  door  upon  him  and  inquired  in  a  guarded  tone : 

"Has  Alice  been  with  you  this  afternoon?  Have 
you  seen  or  heard  anything  of  her  ? " 

"Not  since  luncheon.  Why,  I  thought  that  she 
was  at  home  with  one  of  the  girls." 

"It  seems  she  left  the  house  immediately  after 
you.  She  wore  her  dark  blue  travelling  dress,  and 
one  of  the  servants  saw  her  at  the  railway  station 
at  three  o'clock." 

For  an  instant  the  room  swam  before  his  eyes. 
"You  believe,  then,  that  she  has  gone  off?"  he 
asked  in  an  unnatural  voice,  "that  she  has  gone  ofE 
with  Geoffrey  Heath?" 


THE    WEAKNESS   IN   STRENGTH       369 

In  the  midst  of  his  own  hideous  anguish  he  was 
impressed  by  the  perfect  decency  of  Lydia's  grief 
—  by  the  fact  that  she  wore  her  anxiety  as  an  added 
grace. 

"I  have  telephoned  for  Uncle  Richard,"  she  said 
in  a  subdued  tone,  "and  he  has  just  sent  me  word 
that  after  making  inquiries,  he  learned  that  Geoffrey 
Heath  went  to  Washington  on  the  afternoon  train." 

"And  Alice  is  with  him!" 

"If  she  is  not,  where  is  she?"  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and  sinking  into  a  chair  she  dropped  her 
face  in  her  clasped  hands.  "Oh,  I  wish  Uncle 
Richard  would  come,"  she  moaned  through  her 
fingers. 

Again  he  felt  a  smothered  resentment  at  this 
implicit  reliance  upon  Richard  Ordway.  "We  must 
make  sure  first  that  she  is  gone,"  he  said,  "and  then 
it  will  be  time  enough  to  consider  ways  and  means 
of  bringing  her  back." 

Turning  abruptly  away  from  her,  he  went  out  of 
the  library  and  up  the  staircase  to  Alice's  room, 
which  was  situated  directly  across  the  hall  from  his 
own.  At  the  first  glance  it  seemed  to  him  that 
nothing  was  missing,  but  when  he  looked  at  her 
dressing-table  in  the  alcove,  he  found  that  it  had 
been  stripped  of  her  silver  toilet  articles,  and  that 
her  little  red  leather  bag,  which  he  had  filled  with 
banknotes  a  few  days  ago,  was  not  in  the  top  drawer 
where  she  kept  it.  Something  in  the  girl's  cham- 
ber, so  familiar,  so  redolent  of  associations  with  her 
bright  presence,  tore  at  his  heart  with  a  fresh  sense  of 


370  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

loss,  like  a  gnawing  pain  that  fastens  into  a  new 
wound.  On  the  bed  he  saw  her  pink  flannel  dressing- 
gown,  with  the  embroidered  collar  which  had  so 
delighted  her  when  she  had  bought  it  on  the  floor 
at  one  side  lay  her  pink  quilted  slippers,  slightly 
soiled  from  use;  and  between  the  larger  pillows  was 
the  delicate,  lace-trimmed  baby's  pillow  upon  which 
she  slept.  The  perfume  of  her  youth,  her  freshness, 
was  still  in  the  room,  as  if  she  had  gone  from  it  for 
a  little  while  through  a  still  open  door. 

At  a  touch  on  his  arm  he  looked  round  startled, 
to  find  one  of  the  servants — the  single  remaining  slave 
of  the  past  generation — rocking  her  aged  body  as  she 
stood  at  his  side. 

"  She  am'  gwine  come  back  no  mo' — Yes,  Lawd,  she 
ain'  gwine  come  back  no  mo  .  Whut  's  done  hit 's 
done  en  hit  cyarn  be  undone  agin." 

"Why,  Aunt  Mehaley,  what  do  you  mean?"  he 
demanded  sternly,  oppressed,  in  spite  of  himself  by 
her  wailing  voice  and  her  African  superstition. 

"  I'se  seen  er  tur'ble  heap  done  in  my  day  wid  dese 
hyer  eyes,"  resumed  the  old  negress,  "but  I  ain' 
never  seen  none  un  um  undone  agin  atter  deys 
wunst  been  done.  You  kin  cut  down  er  tree,  but 
you  cyarn'  mek  hit  grow  back  togedder.  You  kin 
wring  de  neck  er  a  rooster,  but  you  cyarn'  mek 
him  crow.  Yes,  my  Lawd,  hit 's  easy  to  pull  down, 
but  hit's  hard  to  riz  up.  I  'se  ole,  Marster,  en  I'se 
mos'  bline  wid  lookin',  but  I  ain'  never  seen  whut  *s 
done  undone  agin." 

She  tottered  out,  still  wailing  in  her  half-crazed 


THE   WEAKNESS   IN   STRENGTH       371 

voice,  and  hastily  shutting  the  drawers  of  the  dress- 
ing-table, he  went  downstairs  again  to  where  Lydia 
awaited  him  in  the  library. 

"There's  no  doubt,  I  fear,  that  she's  gone  with 
Heath,"  he  said,  with  a  constraint  into  which  he 
had  schooled  himself  on  the  staircase.  "As  he  ap- 
pears to  have  stopped  at  Washington,  I  shall  take 
the  next  train  there,  which  leaves  at  nine-twenty- 
five.  If  they  are  married " 

He  broke  off,  struck  by  the  pallor  that  overspread 
her  face. 

"But  they  are  married!  They  must  be  married!" 
she  cried  in  terror. 

For  an  instant  he  stared  back  at  her  white  face 
in  a  horror  as  great  as  hers.  Was  it  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  he  questioned  afterwards,  that  he  had 
been  brought  face  to  face  with  the  hideous  skeletons 
upon  which  living  conventions  assume  a  semblance 
of  truth? 

"I  hope  to  heaven  that  he  has  not  married  her!" 
he  exclaimed  in  a  passion  from  which  she  shrank  back 
trembling.  "Good  God!  do  you  want  me  to  haggle 
with  a  cad  like  that  to  make  him  marry  my  child?" 

"And  if  he  doesn't?  what  then? "moaned  Lydia, 
in,  a  voice  that  seemed  to  fade  away  while  she  spoke. 

"If  he  doesn't  I  shall  be  almost  tempted  to  bless 
his  name.  Have  n't  you  proved  to  me  that  he  is  a 
cheat  and  a  brute  and  a  libertine,  and  yet  you  dare  to 
tell  me  that  I  must  force  him  to  marry  Alice.  Oh, 
if  he  will  only  have  the  mercy  to  leave  her  free,  I 
may  still  save  her!"  he  said. 


372  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

She  looked  at  him  with  dilated  eyes  as  if  rooted 
in  fear  to  the  spot  upon  which  she  stood.  "But 
the  consequences,"  she  urged  weakly  at  last  in  a 
burst  of  tears. 

"Oh,  I'll  take  the  consequences,"  he  retorte  1 
harshly,  as  he  went  out. 

An  hour  later,  when  he  was  settled  in  the  rushing 
train,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  able  to  find  com- 
fort in  the  words  with  which  he  had  separated  from 
his  wife.  Let  Alice  do  what  she  would,  there  was 
always  hope  for  her  in  the  thought  that  he  might 
help  her  to  bear,  even  if  he  could  not  remove  from  her, 
the  consequences  of  her  actions.  Could  so  great  a 
force  as  his  love  for  her  fail  to  avert  from  her  young 
head  at  least  a  portion  of  her  inevitable  disillusion- 
ment? The  recollection  of  her  beauty,  of  her  gener- 
osity, and  of  the  wreck  of  her  womanhood  almost  be- 
fore it  had  begun,  not  only  added  to  his  suffering,  but 
seemed  in  some  inexplicable  way  to  increase  his  love. 
The  affection  he  had  always  felt  for  her  was  stren  gth- 
ened  now  by  that  touch  of  pity  which  lends  a  deeper 
tenderness  to  all  human  relations. 

Upon  reaching  Washington  he  found  that  a  shower 
had  come  up,  and  the  pavements  were  already  wet 
when  he  left  the  station.  He  had  brought  no  umbrella, 
but  he  hardly  heeded  this  in  the  eagerness  which 
drove  him  from  street  to  street  in  his  search  for  his 
child.  After  making  vain  inquiries  at  several  of  the 
larger  hotels,  he  had  begun  to  feel  almost  hopeless, 
when  going  into  the  newest  and  most  fashionable  of 
them  all,  he  discovered  that  "Mr.,  and  Mrs.  Geoffrey 


THE   WEAKNESS   IN   STRENGTH       373 

Heath"  had  been  assigned  an  apartment  there  an 
hour  before.  In  answer  to  his  question  the  clerk 
informed  him  that  the  lady  had  ordered  her  dinner 
served  upstairs,  leaving  at  the  same  time  ex- 
plicit instructions  that  she  was  "not  at  home"  to 
anyone  who  should  call.  But  in  spite  of  this  rebuff, 
he  drew  out  his  card,  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  in 
the  brilliantly  lighted  lobby.  He  had  selected  a 
seat  near  a  radiator  in  the  hope  of  drying  his  damp 
clothes,  and  presently  a  little  cloud  of  steam  rose 
from  his  shoulders  and  drifted  out  into  the  shining 
space.  As  he  watched  the  gorgeous,  over-dressed 
women  who  swept  by  him,  he  remembered  as  one 
remembers  a  distant  dream,  the  years  when  his  life 
had  been  spent  among  such  crowds  in  just  such  a 
dazzling  glare  of  electric  light.  It  appeared  false 
and  artificial  to  him  now,  but  in  the  meantime, 
he  reflected,  while  he  looked  on,  he  had  been  in 
prison. 

A  voice  at  his  elbow  interrupted  his  thoughts, 
and  turning  in  response  to  an  invitation  from  a 
buttoned  sleeve,  he  entered  an  elevator  and  was 
borne  rapidly  aloft  among  a  tightly  wedged  group 
of  women  who  were  loudly  bewailing  their  absence 
from  the  theatre.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  he 
released  himself  at  the  given  signal  from  his  escort, 
and  stepped  out  upon  the  red  velvet  carpet  which 
led  to  Alice's  rooms.  In  response  to  a  knock  from 
the  boy  who  had  accompanied  him,  the  door  flew 
open  with  a  jerk,  and  Alice  appeared  before  him  in 
a  bewildering  effect  of  lace  and  pink  satin. 


374  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"O  papa,  papa,  you  naughty  darling!"  she  ex- 
claimed, and  was  in  his  arms  before  he  had  time  to 
utter  the  reproach  on  his  lips. 

With  her  head  on  his  breast,  he  was  conscious  at 
first  only  of  an  irresponsible  joy,  like  the  joy  of  the 
angels  for  whom  evil  no  longer  exists.  To  know 
that  she  was  alive,  that  she  was  safe,  that  she  was  in 
his  arms,  seemed  sufficient  delight,  not  only  unto  the 
day,  but  unto  his  whole  future  as  well.  Then  the 
thought  of  what  it  meant  to  find  her  thus  in  her 
lace  and  satin  came  over  him,  and  drawing  slightly 
away  he  looked  for  the  first  time  into  her  face. 

"Alice,  what  does  it  mean?"  he  asked,  as  he  kissed 
her. 

Pushing  the  loosened  hair  back  from  her  forehead, 
she  met  his  question  with  a  protesting  pout. 

"It  means  that  you  're  a  wicked  boy  to  run  away 
from  home  like  this  and  be  all  by  yourself  in  a  bad 
city,"  she  responded  with  a  playful  shake  of  her 
finger.  Then  she  caught  his  hand  and  drew  him 
down  on  the  sofa  beside  her  in  the  midst  of  the  filmy 
train  of  her  tea-gown.  "If  you  promise  never  to 
do  it  again,  I  shan't  tell  mamma  on  you,"  she  added, 
with  a  burst  of  light-hearted  merriment. 

"Where  were  you  married,  Alice?  and  who  did 
it?"  he  asked  sternly. 

At  his  tone  a  ripple  of  laughter  broke  from  her  lips, 
and  reaching  for  her  little  red  leather  bag  on  the  table, 
she  opened  it  and  tossed  a  folded  paper  upon  his  knees. 
**I  didn't  ask  his  name,"  she  responded,  "but  you 
can  find  it  all  written  on  that,  I  suppose." 


THE   WEAKNESS   IN   STRENGTH       375 

"  And  you  cared  nothing  for  me  ?  —  nothing  for  rny 
anxiety,  my  distress?" 

"I  always  meant  to  telegraph  you,  of  course, 
Geoffrey  has  gone  down  now  to  do  it." 

"But  were  you  obliged  to  leave  home  in  this  way? 
If  you  had  told  me  you  loved  him,  I  should  have 
understood — should  have  sympathised." 

"Oh,  but  mamma  would  n't,  and  I  had  to  run  off. 
Of  course,  I  wanted  a  big  wedding  like  other  girls, 
and  a  lot  of  bridesmaids  and  a  long  veil,  but  I  knew 
vou  'd  never  consent  to  it,  so  I  made  up  my  mind 
just  to  slip  away  without  saying  a  word.  Geoffrey 
is  so  rich  that  I  can  make  up  afterwards  for  the 
things  I  missed  when  I  was  married.  This  is  what 
he  gave  me  to-day.  Is  n't  it  lovely  ?  " 

Baring  her  throat  she  showed  him  a  pearl  necklace 
hidden  beneath  her  lace  collar.  "We're  sailing 
day  after  to-morrow,"  she  went  on,  delightedly,  "and 
we  shall  go  straight  to  Paris  because  I  am  dying  to 
see  the  shops.  I  would  n't  run  away  with  him  until 
he  promised  to  take  me  there." 

There  was  no  regret  in  her  mind,  no  misgiving,  no 
disquietude.  The  thought  of  his  pain  had  not 
marred  for  an  instant  the  pleasure  of  her  imaginary 
shopping.  "O  papa,  I  am  happy,  so  happy!"  she 
sang  aloud,  springing  suddenly  to  her  full  height  and 
standing  before  him  in  her  almost  barbaric  beauty — 
from  the  splendid  hair  falling  upon  her  shoulders 
to  the  little  feet  that  could  not  keep  still  for  sheer 
joy  of  living.  He  saw  her  red  mouth  glow  and 
tremble  as  she  bent  toward  him.  "To  think  that 


376  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

I  'm  really  and  truly  out  of  Botetourt  at  last?"  she 
cried. 

"Then  you  've  no  need  of  me  and  I  may  as  well 
go  home?"  he  said  a  little  wistfully  as  he  rose. 

At  this  she  hung  upon  his  neck  for  a  minute  with 
her  first  show  of  feeling.  "I  'd rather  you  wouldn  't 
stay  till  Geoffrey  comes  back,"  she  answered,  abruptly 
releasing  him,  "because  it  would  be  a  surprise  to 
him  and  he  's  always  so  cross  when  he  's  surprised. 
He  has  a  perfectly  awful  temper,"  she  confided  in  a 
burst  of  frankness,  "but  I  Ve  learned  exactly  how 
to  manage  him,  so  it  doesn  't  matter.  Then  he  's  so 
handsome,  too.  I  shouldn't  have  looked  at  him 
twice  if  he  had  n't  been  handsome.  Now,  go  straight 
home  and  take  good  care  of  yourself  and  don't  get 
fat  and  bald  before  I  come  back." 

She  kissed  him  several  times,  laughing  in  little  gasps, 
while  she  held  him  close  in  her  arms.  Then  putting 
him  from  her,  she  pushed  him  gently  out  into  the  hall. 
As  the  door  closed  on  her  figure,  he  felt  that  it 
shut  upon  all  that  was  living  or  warm  in  his  heart. 


BOOK  FOURTH 
LIBERATION 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  INWARD  LIGHT 

ON  THE  day  that  he  returned  to  Botetourt,  it 
seemed  to  Ordway  that  the  last  vestige  of  his  youth 
dropped  from  him;  and  one  afternoon  six  months 
later,  as  he  passed  some  schoolboys  who  were  play- 
ing ball  in  the  street,  he  heard  one  of  them  remark 
in  an  audible  whisper:  "Just  wait  till  that  old 
fellow  over  there  gets  out  of  the  way."  Since  com- 
ing home  again  his  interests,  as  well  as  his  power 
of  usefulness,  had  been  taken  from  him;  and  the 
time  that  he  had  spent  in  prison  had  aged  him 
less  than  the  three  peaceful  years  which  he  had 
passed  in  Botetourt.  All  that  suffering  and  experience 
could  not  destroy  had  withered  and  died  in  the 
monotonous  daily  round  which  carried  him  from  his 
home  to  Richard's  office  and  back  again  from  Rich- 
ard's office  to  his  home. 

Outwardly  he  had  grown  only  more  quiet  and  gen- 
tle, as  people  are  apt  to  do  who  approach  the  middle 
years  in  a  position  of  loneliness  and  dependence. 
To  Richard  and  to  Lydia,  who  had  never  entirely 
ceased  to  watch  him,  it  appeared  that  he  had  at  last 
"settled  down,"  that  he  might  be,  perhaps,  trusted 
to  walk  alone;  and  it  was  with  a  sensation  of  relief 
that  his  wife  observed  the  intense  youthful  beam 

379 


380  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

fade  from  his  blue  eyes.  When  his  glance  grew 
dull  and  lifeless,  and  his  features  fell  gradually  into 
the  lines  of  placid  repose  which  mark  the  body's 
contentment  rather  than  the  spirit's  triumph,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  might  at  last  lay  aside  the 
sleepless  anxiety  which  had  been  her  marriage 
portion. 

"He  has  become  quite  like  other  people  now," 
she  said  one  day  to  Richard,  "do  you  know  that  he 
has  grown  to  take  everything  exactly  as  a  matter 
of  course,  and  I  really  believe  he  enjoys  what  he 
eats." 

"I  fm  glad  of  that,"  returned  Richard,  "for  I  've 
noticed  that  he  is  looking  very  far  from  well.  I 
advised  him  several  weeks  ago  to  take  care  of  that 
cough,  but  he  seems  to  have  some  difficulty  in  get- 
ting rid  of  it." 

"He  hasn't  been  well  since  Alice's  marriage,"  ob- 
served Lydia,  a  little  troubled.  "You  know  he 
travelled  home  from  Washington  in  wet  clothes  and 
had  a  spell  of  influenza  afterward.  He  's  had  a  cold 
ever  since,  for  I  hear  him  coughing  a  good  deal  after 
he  first  goes  to  bed." 

"You  'd  better  make  him  attend  to  it,  I  think, 
though  with  his  fine  chest  there  's  little  danger  of 
anything  serious." 

"Do  you  suppose  Alice's  marriage  could  have 
sobered  him  ?  He  's  grown  very  quiet  and  grave,  and 
I  dare  say  it 's  a  sign  that  his  wildness  has  gone  out 
of  him,  poor  fellow.  You  remember  how  his 
laugh  used  to  frighten  me?  Well,  he  never  laughs 


THE    INWARD   LIGHT  381 

like  that  now,  though  he  sometimes  stares  hard 
at  me  as  if  he  were  looking  directly  through  me,  and 
did  n't  even  know  that  he  was  doing  it." 

As  she  spoke  she  glanced  out  of  the  window  and 
her  eyes  fell  on  Daniel,  who  came  slowly  up  the 
gravelled  walk,  his  head  bent  over  an  armful  of  old 
books  he  carried. 

"He  visits  a  great  deal  among  the  poor,"  remarked 
Richard,  "and  I  think  that  's  good  for  him,  provided,, 
of  course,  that  he  does  it  with  discretion." 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Lydia,  though  she  added, 
immediately,  "but  aren't  the  poor  often  very 
immoral?" 

A  reply  was  on  Richard's  lips,  but  before  he  could 
utter  it,  the  door  opened  and  Daniel  entered  with 
the  slow,  almost  timid,  step  into  which  he  had 
schooled  himself  since  his  return  to  Botetourt.  As 
he  saw  Richard  a  smile — his  old  boyish  smile  of 
peculiar  sweetness — came  to  his  lips,  but  without 
speaking,  he  crossed  to  the  table  and  laid  down  the 
books  he  carried. 

"If  those  are  old  books,  won't  you  remember 
to  take  them  up  to  your  room,  Daniel?"  said  Lydia, 
in  her  tone  of  aggrieved  sweetness.  "They  make 
such  a  litter  in  the  library." 

He  started  slightly,  a  nervous  affection  which 
had  increased  in  the  last  months,  and  looked  at  her 
with  an  apologetic  glance.  As  he  stood  there  she 
had  again  that  singular  sensation  of  which  she  had 
spoken  to  Richard,  as  if  he  were  gazing  through  her 
and  not  at  her. 


382  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  answered,  "I  remember 
now  that  I  left  some  here  yesterday." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,  of  course,"  she  responded 
pleasantly,  "it  's  only  that  I  like  to  keep  the  house 
tidy,  you  know." 

"They  do  make  rather  a  mess,"  he  admitted,  and 
gathering  them  up  again,  he  carried  them  out  of  the 
room  and  up  the  staircase. 

They  watched  his  bent  gray  head  disappear  be- 
tween the  damask  curtains  in  the  doorway,  and 
then  listened  almost  unconsciously  for  the  sound  of 
his  slow  gentle  tread  on  the  floor  above. 

"There  was  always  too  much  of  the  dreamer  about 
him,  even  as  a  child,"  commented  Richard,  when 
the  door  was  heard  to  close  over  their  heads,  "but 
he  seems  contented  enough  now  with  his  old  books, 
-doesn't  he?" 

"Contented?  Yes,  I  believe  he  is  even  happy. 
I  never  say  much  to  him  because,  you  see,  there  is 
so  very  little  for  us  to  talk  about.  It  is  a  dreadful 
thing  to  confess,"  she  concluded  resolutely,  "but 
the  truth  is  I  've  been  always  a  little  afraid  of  him 
since — since ' ' 

"Afraid?"  he  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"Well,  not  exactly  afraid — but  nervous  with  a 
kind  of  panic  shudder  at  times — a  dread  of  his  com- 
ing close  to  me,  of  his  touching  me,  of  his  wanting 
things  of  me."  A  shiver  ran  through  her  and  she 
bit  her  lip  as  if  to  hide  the  expression  of  horror  upon 
her  face.  "There  's  nobody  else  on  earth  that  I 
would  say  it  to,  but  when  he  first  came  back  I  used 


THE    INWARD   LIGHT  383 

to  have  nightmares  about  it.  I  could  never  get 
it  out  of  my  mind  a  minute  and  if  they  left  me  alone 
with  him,  I  wanted  almost  to  scream  with  nervous- 
ness. It 's  silly  I  know,  and  I  can  't  explain  it  even 
to  you,  but  there  were  times  when  I  shrieked  aloud 
in  my  sleep  because  I  dreamed  that  he  had  come  into 
my  room  and  touched  me.  I  felt  that  I  was  wrong 
and  foolish,  but  I  couldn't  help  it,  and  I  tried — 
tried — oh,  so  hard  to  bear  things  and  to  be  brave  and 
patient." 

The  tears  fell  from  her  eyes  on  her  clasped  hands, 
but  her  attitude  of  sorrow  only  made  more  appeal- 
ing the  Madonna-like  loveliness  of  her  features. 

"You've  been  a  saint,  Lydia,"  he  answered,, 
patting  her  drooping  shoulder  as  he  rose  to  his 
feet.  "Poor  girl,  poor  girl!  and  no  daughter  of  my 
own  could  be  dearer  to  me,"  he  added  in  his  austere 
sincerity  of  manner. 

"I  have  tried  to  do  right,"  replied  Lydia,  lifting 
her  pure  eyes  to  his  in  an  overflow  of  religious 
emotion. 

Meanwhile  the  harmless  object  of  their  anxiety 
sat  alone  in  his  room  under  a  green  lamp,  with  one 
of  the  musty  books  he  had  bought  open  upon  his 
knees.  He  was  not  reading,  for  his  gaze  was  fixed 
on  the  opposite  wall,  and  there  was  in  his  eyes  some- 
thing of  the  abstracted  vision  which  Lydia  dreaded. 
It  was  as  if  his  intellect,  forced  from  the  outward 
experience  back  into  the  inner  world  of  thought, 
had  ended  by  projecting  an  image  of  itself  into  the 
space  at  which  he  looked.  While  he  sat  there  the 


384  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

patient,  apologetic  smile  with  which  he  had  answered 
to  his  wife  was  still  on  his  lips. 

"I  suppose  it's  because  I'm  getting  old  that 
people  and  things  no  longer  make  me  suffer,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "it's  because  I  'm  getting  old  that 
I  can  look  at  Lydia  unmoved,  that  I  can  feel  ten- 
derness for  her  even  while  I  see  the  repulsion  creep 
into  her  eyes.  It  is  n't  her  fault,  after  all,  that  she 
loathes  me,  nor  is  it  mine.  Yes,  I  'm  certainly  an 
old  fellow,  the  boy  was  right.  At  any  rate,  it  rs 
pleasanter,  on  the  whole,  than  being  young." 

Closing  the  book,  he  laid  it  on  the  table,  and 
leaned  forward  with  his  chin  on  his  hands.  "But 
if  I  'd  only  known  when  I  was  young!"  he  added, 
"if  I  'd  only  known!"  His  past  life  rose  before  him 
as  a  picture  that  he  had  seen,  rather  than  as  a  road 
along  which  he  had  travelled;  and  he  found  himself 
regarding  it  almost  as  impersonally  as  he  might 
have  regarded  the  drawing  upon  the  canvas.  The 
peril  of  the  inner  life  had  already  begun  to  beset 
him — that  mysterious  power  of  reliving  one's  ex- 
perience with  an  intensity  which  makes  the  objective 
world  appear  dull  and  colourless  by  contrast.  It 
was  with  an  effort  at  times  that  he  was  able  to  detach 
his  mind  from  the  contemplative  habit  into  which  he 
had  fallen.  Between  him  and  his  surroundings 
there  existed  but  a  single  bond,  and  this  was 
the  sympathy  which  went  out  of  him  when  he 
was  permitted  to  reach  the  poor  and  the  afflicted. 
To  them  he  could  still  speak,  with  them  he  could 
still  be  mirthful;  but  from  his  wife,  his  uncle,  and 


THE    INWARD   LIGHT  385 

the  members  of  his  own  class,  he  was  divided  by 
that  impenetrable  wall  of  social  tradition.  In  his 
home  he  had  ceased  to  laugh,  as  Lydia  had  said; 
but  he  could  still  laugh  in  the  humbler  houses  of  the 
poor.  They  had  received  him  as  one  of  themselves, 
and  for  this  reason  alone  he  could  remember  how  to 
be  merry  when  he  was  with  them.  To  the  others, 
to  his  own  people,  he  felt  himself  to  be  always  an 
outsider,  a  reclaimed  castaway,  a  philanthropic  case 
instead  of  an  individual;  and  he  knew  that  if  there 
was  one  proof  the  more  to  Lydia  that  he  was  in  the 
end  a  redeemed  character,  it  was  the  single  fact  that 
he  no  longer  laughed  in  her  presence.  It  was,  he 
could  almost  hear  her  say,  unbecoming,  if  not  posi- 
tively improper,  that  a  person  who  had  spent  five 
years  in  prison  should  be  able  to  laugh  immoder- 
ately afterward;  and  the  gravity  of  his  lips  was  in 
her  eyes,  he  understood,  the  most  satisfactory  testi- 
mony to  the  regeneration  of  his  heart. 

And  yet  Lydia,  according  to  her  vision,  was  a  kind, 
as  well  as  a  conscientious  woman.  The  pity  of  it 
was  that  if  he  were  to  die  now,  three  years  after  his 
homecoming,  she  would  probably  reconstruct  an  im- 
aginary figure  of  him  in  her  memory,  and  wear  crape 
for  it  with  appropriate  grace  and  dignity.  The 
works  of  the  imagination  are  manifold,  he  thought 
with  a  grim  humour,  even  in  a  dull  woman. 

But  as  there  was  not  likely  to  occur  anything  so 
dramatic,  in  the  immediate  present,  as  his  death, 
he  wondered  vaguely  what  particular  form  of  aver- 
sion his  wife's  attitude  would  next  express.  Or 


386  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

could  it  be  that  since  he  had  effaced  himself  so 
utterly,  he  hardly  dared  to  listen  to  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  in  the  house,  she  had  grown  to  regard 
him  with  a  kind  of  quiet  tolerance,  as  an  object 
which  was  unnecessary,  perhaps,  yet  entirely  in- 
offensive? He  remembered  now  that  during  those 
terrible  first  years  in  prison  he  had  pursued  the 
thought  of  her  with  a  kind  of  hopeless  violence, 
yet  to-day  he  could  look  back  upon  her  desertion 
of  him  in  his  need  with  a  compassion  which  forgave 
the  weakness  that  it  could  not  comprehend.  That, 
too,  he  supposed  was  a  part  of  the  increasing  list- 
lessness  of  middle  age.  In  a  little  while  he  would 
look  forward,  it  might  be,  to  the  coming  years  with- 
out dread — to  the  long  dinners  when  he  sat  opposite 
to  her  with  the  festive  bowl  of  flowers  between  them, 
to  the  quiet  evenings  when  she  lingered  for  a  few 
minutes  under  the  lamp  before  going  to  her  room 
— those  evenings  which  are  the  supreme  hours  of 
love  or  of  despair.  Oh,  well,  he  would  grow  indiffer- 
ent to  the  horror  of  these  things,  as  he  had  already 
grown  indifferent  to  the  soft  curves  of  her  body. 
Yes,  it  was  a  thrice  blessed  thing,  this  old  age  to 
which  he  was  coming ! 

Then  another  memory  flooded  his  heart  with  the 
glow  of  youth,  and  he  saw  Emily,  as  she  had  appeared 
to  him  that  night  in  the  barn  more  than  six  years 
ago,  when  she  had  stood  with  the  lantern  held  high 
above  her  head  and  the  red  cape  slipping  back  from 
her  upraised  arm.  A  sharp  pain  shot  through  him, 
and  he  dropped  his  eyes  as  if  he  had  met  a  blow. 


THE    INWARD   LIGHT  387 

That  was  youth  at  which  he  had  looked  for  one 
longing  instant — that  was  youth  and  happiness 
and  inextinguishable  desire. 

For  a  moment  he  sat  with  bent  head;  then  with 
an  effort  he  put  the  memory  from  him,  and  opened 
his  book  at  the  page  where  he  had  left  off.  As  he 
did  so  there  was  a  tap  at  his  door,  and  when  he 
had  spoken,  Lydia  came  in  timidly  with  a  letter  in  her 
hand. 

"This  was  put  into  Uncle  Richard's  box  by  mis- 
take," she  said,  "and  he  has  just  sent  it  over." 

He  took  it  from  her  and  seeing  that  it  was  ad- 
dressed in  Baxter's  handwriting,  laid  it,  still  un- 
opened, upon  the  table.  "Won't  you  sit  down?"' 
he  asked,  pushing  forward  the  chair  from  which  he 
had  risen. 

A  brief  hesitation  showed  in  her  face;  then  as  he 
turned  away  from  her  to  pick  up  some  scattered 
papers  from  the  floor,  she  sat  down  with  a  tentative, 
nervous  manner. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  that  you're  well,  Daniel?" 
she  inquired.  "Uncle  Richard  noticed  to-day  that 
you  coughed  a  good  deal  in  the  office.  I  wonder 
if  you  get  exactly  the  proper  kind  of  food?" 

He  nodded,  smiling.  "Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  he 
responded,  "I  'm  as  hard  as  nails,  you  know,  and 
always  have  been." 

**  Even  hard  people  break  down  sometimes.  I  wish 
you  would  take  a  tonic  or  see  a  doctor." 

Her  solicitude  surprised  him,  until  he  remem- 
bered that  she  had  never  failed  in  sympathy  for 


388  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

purely  physical  ailments.  If  he  had  needed  bodily 
healing  instead  of  mental,  she  would  probably  have 
applied  it  with  a  conscientious  devotedness. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  but  I  *m  really  not 
sick,"  he  insisted,  "it  is  very  good  of  yout  however." 

"It  is  nothing  more  than  my  duty,"  she  rejoined, 
-sweetly. 

"Well,  that  may  be,  but  there's  nothing  to  pre- 
vent my  being  obliged  to  you  for  doing  your  duty." 

Puzzled  as  always  by  his  whimsical  tone,  she  sat 
looking  at  him  with  her  gentle,  uncomprehending 
glance.  "I  wish,  all  the  same,"  she  murmured, 
"that  you  would  let  me  send  you  a  mustard  plaster 
to  put  on  your  chest.'* 

He  shook  his  head  without  replying  in  words  to 
her  suggestion. 

"Do  you  know  it  is  three  months  since  we  had  a 
letter  from  Alice,"  he  said,  "and  six  since  she  went 
away." 

15  Oh,  it's  that  then?  You  have  been  worrying 
about  Alice?" 

"How  can  I  help  it?  We  hardly  know  even 
that  she  is  living." 

"I've  thought  of  her  day  and  night  since  her 
marriage,  though  it 's  just  as  likely,  isn  't  it,  that 
she  's  taken  up  with  the  new  countries  and  her  new 
clothes?" 

"Oh,  of  course,  it  may  be  that,  but  it  is  the  awful 
uncertainty  that  kills." 

With  a  sigh  she  looked  down  at  her  slippered  feet. 
4t  I  was  thinking  to  day  what  a  comfort  Dick  is  to  me 


THE   INWARD   LIGHT  389 

— to  us  all,"  she  said,  "one  is  so  sure  of  him  and 
he  is  doing  so  splendidly  at  college." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "Dick  is  a  comfort,  I  wish 
poor  Alice  was  more  like  him." 

"She  was  always  wild,  you  remember,  never  like 
other  children,  and  .it  was  impossible  to  make  her 
understand  that  some  things  were  right  and  some 
wrong.  Yet  I  never  thought  that  she  would  care 
for  such  a  loud,  vulgar  creature  as  Geoffrey  Heath." 

"Did  she  care  for  him?"  asked  Daniel,  almost  in 
a  whisper,  "or  was  it  only  that  she  wanted  to  see 
Paris?" 

"Well,  she  may  have  improved  him  a  little — at 
least  let  us  hope  so,"  she  remarked  as  if  she  had  not 
heard  his  question.  "He  has  money,  at  any  rate, 
and  that  is  what  she  has  always  wanted,  though 
I  fear  even  Geoffrey's  income  will  be  strained  by  her 
ceaseless  extravagance." 

As  she  finished  he  thought  of  her  own  youth, 
which  she  had  evidently  forgotten,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  faults  she  blamed  most  in  Alice 
were  those  which  she  had  overcome  patiently  in  her 
own  nature. 

«   "I   could  stand  anything  better  than  this  long 
suspense,"  he  said  gently. 

"It  does  wear  one  out,"  she  rejoined.  "I  am 
very,  very  sorry  for  you." 

Some  unaccustomed  tone  in  her  voice — a  more 
human  quality,  a  deeper  cadence,  made  him  wonder 
in  an  impulse  of  self-reproach  if,  after  all,  the  breach 
between  them  was  in  part  of  his  own  making? 


390  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

Was  it  still  possible  to  save  from  the  ruin,  if  not  love, 
at  least  human  companionship  ? 

<JLydia,"  he  said,  "it  is  n't  Alice,  it  is  mostly  lone- 
liness, I  think." 

Rising  from  her  chair  she  stood  before  him  with 
her  vague,  sweet  smile  playing  about  her  lips. 

"It  is  natural  that  you  should  feel  depressed 
with  that  cough,"  she  remarked,  "I  really  wish  you 
would  let  me  send  you  a  mustard  plaster." 

As  the  cough  broke  out  again,  he  strangled  it 
hilariously  in  a  laugh.  "Oh,  well,  if  it 's  any  com- 
fort to  you,  I  don't  mind,"  he  responded. 

When  she  had  gone  he  picked  up  Baxter's  letter 
from  the  table  and  opened  it  with  trembling  fingers. 
What  he  had  expected  to  find,  he  hardly  knew,  but 
as  he  read  the  words,  written  so  laboriously  in  Bax- 
ter's big  scrawling  writing,  he  felt  that  his  energy 
returned  to  him  with  the  demand  for  action — for 
personal  responsibility. 

"  I  don 't  know  whether  or  not  you  heard  of  Mrs.  Brooke 's 
death  three  months  ago,"  the  letter  ran,  "  but  this  is  to  say 
that  Mr.  Beverly  dropped  down  with  a  paralytic  stroke  last 
week;  and  now  since  he  's  dead  and  buried,  the  place  is  to  be 
sold  for  debt  and  the  children  sent  off  to  school  to  a  friend 
of  Miss  Emily's  where  they  can  go  cheap.  Miss  Emily  has  a 
good  place  now  in  the  Tappahannock  Bank,  but  she 's  going 
North  before  Christmas  to  some  big  boarding  school  where 
they  teach  riding.  There  are  a  lot  of  things  to  be  settled  about 
the  sale,  and  I  thought  that,  being  convenient,  you  might 
take  the  trouble  to  run  down  for  a  day  and  help  us  with  your 
advice,  which  is  of  Hie  best  always. 

"  Hoping  that  you  are  in  good  health,  I  am  at  present, 

BAXTER." 


THE    INWARD   LIGHT  391 

As  he  folded  the  letter  a  flush  overspread  his 
face.  "I  '11  go,"  he  said,  with  a  new  energy  in  his 
voice,  "I  '11  go  to-morrow." 

Then  turning  in  response  to  a  knock,  he  opened 
the  door  and  received  the  mustard  plaster  which  Lydia 
had  made. 


CHAPTER   II 
AT  TAPPAHANNOCK  AGAIN 

HE  HAD  sent  a  telegram  to  Banks,  and  as  the 
train  pulled  into  the  station,  he  saw  the  familiar 
sandy  head  and  freckled  face  awaiting  him  upon  the 
platform. 

"By  George,  this  is  a  bully  sight,  Smith,"  was 
the  first  shout  that  reached  his  ears. 

"You  're  not  a  bit  more  pleased  than  I  am,"  he 
returned  laughing  with  pleasure,  as  he  glanced 
from  the  station,  crowded  with  noisy  Negroes,  up 
the  dusty  street  into  which  they  were  about  to 
turn.  "It's  like  coming  home  again,  and  upon  my 
word,  I  wish  I  were  never  to  leave  here.  But 
how  are  you,  Banks?  So  you  are  married  to  Milly 
and  going  to  live  contented  forever  afterward." 

"Yes,  I  'm  married,"  replied  Banks,  without 
enthusiasm,  "and  there  's  a  baby  about  which  Milly 
is  clean  crazy.  Milly  has  got  so  fat,"  he  added, 
"that  you  'd  never  believe  I  could  have  spanned 
her  waist  with  my  hands  three  years  ago." 

"  Indeed  ?     And  is  she  as  captivating  as  ever  ? " 

"Well,  I  reckon  she  must  be,"  said  Banks,  "but 
it  doesn  *t  seem  so  mysterious,  somehow,  as  it  used 
to."  His  silly,  affectionate  smile  broke  out  as  he 
looked  at  his  companion.  "To  tell  the  truth," 

392 


AT  TAPPAHANNOCK  AGAIN  393 

he  confessed,  "I  've  been  missing  you  mighty  hard, 
Smith,  marriage  or  no  marriage.  It  ain't  any- 
thing against  Milly,  God  knows,  that  she  can't  take 
your  place,  and  it  ain't  anything  against  the  baby. 
What  I  want  is  somebody  I  can  sit  down  and 
look  up  to,  and  I  don't  seem  to  be  exactly  able  to 
look  up  to  Milly  or  to  the  baby." 

"The  trouble  with  you,  my  dear  Banks,  is  that 
you  are  an  incorrigible  idealist  and  always  will  be. 
You  were  born  to  be  a  poet  and  I  don't  see  to  save 
my  life  how  you  escaped." 

"  I  did  n't.  I  used  to  write  a  poem  every  Sunday 
of  my  life  when  I  first  went  into  tobacco.  But 
after  that  Milly  came  and  I  got  used  to  spending 
all  my  Sundays  with  her." 

"Well,  now  that  you  have  her  in  the  week,  you 
might  begin  all  over  again." 

They  were  walking  rapidly  up  the  long  hill,  and 
as  Ordway  passed,  he  nodded,  right  and  left  to  the 
familiar  faces  that  looked  out  from  the  shop  doors. 
They  were  all  friendly,  they  were  all  smiling,  they 
were  all  ready  to  welcome  him  back  among  them. 

"The  queer  part  is,"  observed  Banks,  with  that 
stubborn  vein  of  philosophy  which  accorded  so  oddly 
with  his  frivolous  features,  "that  the  thing  you  get 
does  n't  ever  seem  to  be  the  same  as  the  thing  you 
wanted.  This  Milly  is  kind  to  me  and  the  other 
was  n't,  but,  somehow,  that  has  n't  made  me  stop 
regretting  the  other  one  that  I  didn't  marry — the 
Milly  that  banged  and  snapped  at  me  about  my 
clothes  and  things  all  day  long.  I  don't  know  what 


394  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

it  means,  Smith,  I  've  studied  about  it,  but  I  can't 
understand." 

"The  meaning  of  it  is,  Banks,  that  you  wanted 
not  the  woman,  but  the  dream." 

"Well,  I  didn't  get  it,"  rejoined  Banks,  gloomily. 

"Yet  Milly  's  a  good  wife  and  you're  happy, 
are  n't  you?" 

"I  should  be,"  replied  Banks,  "if  I  could  forget 
how  darn  fascinating  that  other  Milly  was.  Oh, 
yes,  she  's  a  good  wife  and  a  doting  mother,  and 
I  'm  happy  enough,  but  it 's  a  soft,  squashy  kind  of 
happiness,  not  like  the  way  I  used  to  feel  when  I  'd 
walk  home  with  you  after  the  preaching  in  the  old 
field." 

While  he  spoke  they  had  reached  Baxter's  ware- 
house, and  as  Ordway  was  recognized,  there  was  a 
quiver  of  excitement  in  the  little  crowd  about  the 
doorway.  A  moment  later  it  had  surrounded  him 
with  a  shout  of  welcome.  A  dozen  friendly  hands 
were  outstretched,  a  dozen  breathless  lips  were 
calling  his  name.  As  the  noise  passed  through  the 
neighbouring  windows,  the  throng  was  increased 
by  a  number  of  small  storekeepers  and  a  few  strag- 
gling operatives  from  the  cotton  mills,  until  at  last 
he  stopped,  half  laughing,  half  crying,  in  their  midst. 
Ten  minutes  afterward,  when  Baxter  wedged  his 
big  person  through  the  archway,  he  saw  Ordway 
standing  bareheaded  in  the  street,  his  face  suffused 
with  a  glow  which  seemed  to  give  back  to  him  a 
fleeting  beam  of  the  youth  that  he  had  lost. 

"Well,   I   reckon   it's  my   turn   now.     You   can 


AT  TAPPAHANNOCK  AGAIN  395 

just  step  inside  the  office,  Smith,"  remarked  Baxter, 
while  he  grasped  Ordway's  arm  and  pulled  him  back 
into  the  warehouse.  As  they  entered  the  little  room, 
Daniel  saw  again  the  battered  chair,  the  pile  of 
Smith's  Almanacs,  and  the  paper  weight,  represent- 
ing a  gambolling  kitten,  upon  the  desk. 

"I  'm  glad  to  see  you — we  're  all  glad  to  see  you," 
said  Baxter,  shaking  his  hand  for  the  third  time  with 
a  grasp  which  made  Ordway  feel  that  he  was  in  the 
clutch  of  a  down  cushion.  "It  isn't  the  way  of 
Tappahannock  to  forget  a  friend,  and  she  ain't 
forgotten  you." 

"It 's  like  her,"  returned  Ordway,  and  he  added 
with  a  sigh,  "I  only  wish  I  were  coming  back  for 
good,  Baxter." 

"There  now!"  exclaimed  Baxter,  chuckling,  "you 
don't,  do  you?  Well,  all  I  can  say,  my  boy,  is  that 
you  've  got  a  powerful  soft  spot  that  you  left  here, 
and  your  old  job  in  the  warehouse  is  still  waiting  for 
you  when  you  care  to  take  it.  I  tell  you  what, 
Smith,  you  've  surely  spoiled  me  for  any  other  book- 
keeper, and  I  ain't  so  certain,  when  it  comes  to 
that,  that  you  have  n't  spoiled  me  for  myself." 

He  was  larger,  softer,  more  slovenly  than  ever, 
but  he  was  so  undeniably  the  perfect  and  inimitable 
Baxter,  that  Ordway  felt  his  heart  go  out  to  him 
in  a  rush  of  sentiment.  "Oh,  Baxter,  how  is  it 
possible  that  I  Ve  lived  without  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  Smith,  but  it 's  a  plain  fact  that 
after  my  wife — and  that  's  nature — there  ain't  any- 
body goin'  that  I  set  so  much  store  by.  Why,  when 


396  THE   ANCIENT    LAW 

I  was  in  Botetourt  last  spring,  I  went  so  far  as  to 
put  my  right  foot  on  your  bottom  step,  but,  some- 
how, the  left  never  picked  up  the  courage  to  follow  it." 

"  Do  you  dare  to  tell  me  that  you  've  been  to  Bote- 
tourt?*' demanded  Ordway  with  indignation. 

"Well,  I  could  have  stood  the  house  you  live  it, 
though  it  kind  of  took  my  breath  away,"  replied 
Baxter,  with  an  embarrassed  and  guilty  air,  "but 
when  it  came  to  facing  that  fellow  at  the  door,  then 
my  courage  gave  out  and  I  bolted.  I  studied  him 
a  long  while,  thinking  I  might  get  my  eyes  used  to 
the  sight  of  him,  but  it  did  no  good.  I  declar', 
Smith,  I  could  no  more  have  put  a  word  to  him  than 
I  could  to  the  undertaker  at  my  own  funeral.  Bless 
my  soul,  suh,  poor  Mr.  Beverly,  when  he  was  aliver 
did  n't  hold  a  tallow  candle  to  that  man." 

"  You  might  have  laid  in  wait  for  me  in  the  street, 
then,  that  would  have  been  only  fair." 

"But  how  did  I  know,  Smith,  that  you  wan't 
livin*  up  to  the  man  at  your  door?" 

"It  wouldn't  have  taken  you  long  to  find  out 
that  I  was  n't.  So  poor  Mr.  Beverly  is  dead  and 
buried,  then,  is  he?" 

Baxter's  face  adopted  instantly  a  funereal  gloom, 
and  his  voice,  when  he  spoke,  held  a  quaver  of 
regret, 

"There  wasn't  a  finer  gentleman  on  earth  than 
Mr.  Beverly,"  he  said,  "and  he  would  have  given 
me  his  last  blessed  cent  if  he  'd  ever  had  one  to  give. 
I  've  lost  a  friend,  Smith,  there  's  no  doubt  of  that, 
I  've  lost  a  friend.  And  poor  Mrs.  Brooke,  too/* 


AT   TAPPAHANNOCK  AGAIN  397 

he  added  sadly.  "Many  and  many  is  the  time 
I  've  heard  Mr.  Beverly  grieven'  over  the  way  she 
worked.  '  If  things  had  only  come  out  as  I  planned 
them,  Baxter/  he  'd  say  to  me,  'my  wife  should 
never  have  raised  her  finger  except  to  lift  food  to 
her  lips."1 

"And  yet  I  've  seen  him  send  her  downstairs  a 
dozen  times  a  day  to  make  him  a  lemonade,"  ob- 
served Ordway  cynically. 

"That  wasn't  his  fault,  suh,  he  was  born  like 
that — it  was  just  his  way.  He  was  always  obliged 
to  have  what  he  wanted." 

"Well,  I  can  forgive  him  for  killing  his  wife,  but 
I  can't  pardon  him  for  the  way  he  treated  his  sister. 
That  girl  used  to  work  like  a  farm  hand  when  I 
was  out  there." 

"She  was  mighty  fond  of  him  all  the  same,  was 
Miss  Emily." 

"Everybody  was,  that's  what  I'm  quarreling 
about.  He  did  n't  deserve  it." 

"But  he  meant  well  in  his  heart,  Smith,  and  it 's 
by  that  that  I  'm  judgin'  him.  It  was  n't  his  fault, 
was  it,  if  things  never  went  just  the  way  he  had 
planned  them  out?  I  don't  deny,  of  course,  that 
he  was  sort  of  flighty  at  times,  as  when  he  made  a 
will  the  week  before  he  died  and  left  five  hundred 
dollars  to  the  Tappahannock  Orphan  Asylum." 

"To  the  Orphan  Asylum?  Why,  his  own  chil- 
dren are  orphans,  and  he  did  n't  have  five  hundred 
dollars  to  his  name!" 

"Of  course,   he   didn't,   that's  just   the   point," 


398  THE   ANCIENT    LAW 

said  Baxter  with  a  placid  tolerance  which  seemed 
largely  the  result  of  physical  bulk,  "and  so  they 
have  had  to  sell  most  of  the  furniture  to  pay  the  be- 
quest. You  see,  just  the  night  before  his  stroke,  he 
got  himself  considerably  worked  up  over  those 
orphans.  So  he  just  could  n't  help  hopin'  he  would 
have  five  hundred  dollars  to  leave  'em  when  he  came 
to  die,  an'  in  case  he  did  have  it  he  thought  he  might 
as  well  be  prepared.  Then  he  sat  right  down  and 
wrote  the  bequest  out,  and  the  next  day  there  came 
his  stroke  and  carried  him  off." 

"Oh,  you're  a  first-rate  advocate,  Baxter,  but 
that  does  n't  alter  my  opinion  of  Mr.  Beverly.  What 
about  his  own  orphans  now?  How  are  they  going 
to  be  provided  for?" 

"It  seems  Miss  Emily  is  to  board  'em  out  at  some 
school  she  knows  of,  and  I  've  settled  it  with  her 
that  she  's  to  borrow  enough  from  me  to  tide  over 
any  extra  expenses  until  spring. '? 

"Then  we  are  to  wind  up  the  affairs  of  Cedar 
Hill,  are  we?  I  suppose  it  's  best  for  everybody, 
but  it  makes  me  sad  enough  to  think  of  it." 

"And  me,  too,  Smith,"  said  Baxter,  sentimen- 
tally. "  I  can  see  Mr.  Beverly  to  the  life  now  playin' 
with  his  dominoes  on  the  front  porch.  But  there  's 
mighty  little  to  wind  up,  when  it  comes  to  that.  It  's 
mortgaged  pretty  near  to  the  last  shingle,  and  when 
the  bequest  to  the  orphans  is  paid  out  of  what 's 
over,  there  '11  be  precious  few  dollars  that  Miss  Emily 
can  call  her  own.  The  reason  I  sent  for  you,  Smith," 
he  added  in  a  solemn  voice,  "was  that  I  thought  you 


AT  TAPPAHANNOCK  AGAIN  399 

might  be  some  comfort  to  that  poor  girl  out  there 
in  her  affliction.  If  you  feel  inclined,  I  hoped  you  'd 
walk  out  to  Cedar  Hill  and  read  her  a  chapter  or  so 
in  the  Bible.  I  remembered  how  consolin'  you  used 
to  be  to  people  in  trouble." 

With  a  prodigious  effort  Ordway  swallowed  his 
irreverent  mirth,  while  Baxter's  pious  tones  sounded 
in  his  ears.  "  Of  course  I  shall  go  out  to  Cedar  Hill," 
he  returned,  "but  I  was  wondering,  Baxter,"  he 
broke  off  for  a  minute  and  then  went  on  again  with  an 
embarrassed  manner,  "I  was  wondering  if  there  was 
any  way  I  could  help  those  children  without  being 
found  out?  It  would  make  me  particularly  happy 
to  feel  that  I  might  share  in  giving  them  an  edu- 
cation. Do  you  think  you  could  smuggle  the  money 
for  their  school  bills  into  their  Christmas  stockings  ?" 

Baxter  thought  over  it  a  moment.  "  I  might  manage 
it,"  he  replied,  "seein'  that  the  bills  are  mostly  to 
come  through  my  hands,  and  I  'm  to  settle  all  that 
I  can  out  of  what 's  left  of  the  estate." 

As  he  paused  Daniel  looked  hastily  away  from 
him,  fearful  lest  Baxter  might  be  perplexed  by  the 
joy  that  shone  in  his  face.  To  be  connected,  even 
so  remotely,  with  Emily  in  the  care  of  Beverly's 
children,  was  a  happiness  for  which,  a  moment  ago, 
he  had  not  dared  to  hope. 

"Let  me  deposit  the  amount  with  you  twice  a 
year,"  he  said,  "that  will  be  both  the  easiest  and 
the  safest  way." 

"Maybe  you're  right.  And  now  it's  settled, 
ain't  it,  that  you  're  to  come  to  my  house  to  stay?" 


400  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

"I  must  go  back  on  the  night  train,  I  'm  sorry 
to  say,  but  if  you  '11  let  me  I  '11  drop  in  to  supper. 
I  remember  your  wife's  biscuits  of  old,"  he  added, 
smiling. 

"You  don't  mean  it!  Well,  it'll  tickle  her  to 
death,  I  reckon.  It  ain't  likely,  by  the  way,  that 
you  '11  find  much  to  eat  out  at  Cedar  Hill,  so  you  'd 
better  remember  to  have  a  snack  before  you  start." 

"Oh,  I  can  fast  until  supper,"  returned  Daniel, 
rising. 

"Well,  don't  forget  to  give  my  respects  to  Miss 
Emily,  and  tell  her  I  say  not  to  worry,  but  to  let 
the  Lord  take  a  turn.  You  '11  find  things  pretty 
topsy-turvy  out  there,  Smith,"  he  added,  "but  if 
you  don't  happen  to  have  your  Bible  handy,  I  '11 
lend  you  one  and  welcome.  There  's  the  big  one 
with  gilt  clasps  the  boys  gave  me  last  Christmas 
right  on  top  of  my  desk." 

"Oh,  they're  sure  to  have  one  around,"  replied 
Ordway  gravely,  as  he  shook  hands  again  before 
leaving  the  office. 

From  the  top  of  the  hill  by  the  brick  church,  he 
caught  »,  glimpse  of  the  locust  trees  in  Mrs.  Twine's 
little  yard,  and  turning  in  response  to  a  remembered 
force  of  habit,  he  followed  the  board  sidewalk  to 
the  whitewashed  gate,  which  hung  slightly  open. 
In  the  street  a  small  boy  was  busily  flinging  pebbles 
at  the  driver  of  a  coal  wagon,  and  calling  the  child  to 
him,  Ordway  inquired  if  Mrs.  Twine  still  lived  in  that 
house, 

"Thar   ain't  no   Mrs.   Twine,"   replied  the  boy, 


AT  TAPPAHANNOCK  AGAIN  401 

"she's  Mrs.  Buzzy.  She  married  my  pa,  that's 
why  I  'm  here,''  he  explained  with  a  wink,  as  the 
door  behind  him  flew  open,  and  the  lady  in  question 
rushed  out  to  welcome  her  former  lodger.  ' '  I  hear  her 
now — she  's  a-comin'.  My,  an'  she  's  a  tartar,  she  is!" 

"It's  the  best  sight  I've  laid  eyes  on  sense 
I  saw  po',  dear  Bill  on  his  deathbed,"  exclaimed 
the  tartar,  with  delight.  "Come  right  in,  suh,  come 
right  in  an'  set  down  an'  let  me  git  a  look  at  you. 
Thar  ain't  much  cheer  in  the  house  now  sence  I  Ve 
lost  Bill  an'  his  sprightly  ways,  but  the  welcome  's 
warm  if  the  house  ain't." 

She  brought  him  ceremoniously  into  her  closed 
parlour,  and  then  at  his  request  led  him  out  of  the 
stagnant  air  back  into  her  comfortable,  though 
untidy,  kitchen.  "  I  jest  had  my  hand  in  the  dough, 
suh,  when  I  heard  yo'  voice,"  she  observed  apolo- 
getically, as  she  wiped  off  the  bottom  of  a  chair 
with  her  blue  gingham  apron.  "I  knew  you  'd  be 
set  back  to  find  out  I  did  n't  stay  long  a  widder." 

"I  had  n't  even  heard  of  Bill's  death,"  he  returned, 
"so  it  was  something  of  a  surprise  to  discover  that 
you  were  no  longer  Mrs.  Twine.  Was  it  very  sudden?" 

"Yes,  suh,  'twas  tremens — delicious  tremens — 
an'  they  took  him  off  so  quick  we  did  n't  even  have 
the  crape  in  the  house  to  tie  on  the  front  do'  knob. 
You  could  a  heard  him  holler  all  the  way  down 
to  the  cotton  mills.  He  al'ays  had  powerful  fine 
lungs,  had  Bill,  an'  if  he  'd  a -waited  for  his  lungs  to 
take  him,  he  'd  be  settin'  thar  right  now,  as  peart 
as  life." 


402  THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  wiping  them  hastily 
away  with  her  apron,  she  took  up  a  pan  of  potatoes 
and  began  paring  them  with  a  handleless  knife. 

"After  your  former  marriages-,"  he  remarked 
doubtful  as  to  whether  he  should  offer  sympathy 
or  congratulations,  "I  should  have  thought  you 
would  have  rested  free  for  a  time  at  least." 

"It  warn't  my  way,  Mr.  Smith,"  she  responded, 
with  a  mournful  shake  of  her  head.  "To  be  sure  I 
had  a  few  peaceful  months  arter  Bill  was  gone,  but 
the  queer  thing  is  how  powerful  soon  peace  can 
begin  to  pall  on  yo'  taste.  Why,  I  had  n't  been  in 
mo'nin'  for  Bill  goin'  on  to  four  months,  when  Silas 
Trimmer  came  along  an'  axed  me,  an'  I  said  'yes' 
as  quick  as  that,  jest  out  a  the  habit  of  it.  I  took 
off  my  mo'nin  an'  kep'  comp'ny  with  him  for  quite 
a  while,  but  we  had  a  quarrel  over  Bill's  tombstone, 
suh,  for,  bein'  a  close-fisted  man,  he  warn  't  willin' 
that  I  should  put  up  as  big  a  monument  as  I  'd  a 
mind  to.  Well,  I  broke  off  with  him  on  that  account, 
for  when  it  comes  to  choosin'  between  respect  to  the 
dead  an*  marriage  to  the  livin'  Silas  Trimmer,  I  told 
him  '  I  reckon  it  won't  take  long  for  you  to  find  out 
which  way  my  morals  air  set.'  He  got  mad  as  a 
hornet  and  went  off,  and  I  put  on  mo'nin  agin  an' 
wo'  it  steddy  twil  the  year  was  up." 

"And  at  the  end  of  that  time,  I  presume,  you 
were  wearied  of  widowhood  and  married  Buzzy?" 

"It  's  a  queer  thing,  suh,"  she  observed,  as  she 
picked  up  a  fresh  potato  and  inspected  it  as  atten- 
tively as  if  it  had  been  a  new  proposal,"  it  's  a  queer 


AT  TAPPAHANNOCK  AGAIN  403 

thing  we  ain't  never  so  miserable  in  this  world  as 
when  we  ain't  got  the  frazzle  of  an  excuse  to  be  so. 
Now,  arter  Bill  went  from  me,  thar  was  sech  a  quiet 
about  that  it  began  to  git  on  my  nerves,  an'  at  last 
it  got  so  that  I  could  n't  sleep  at  nights  because  I  was 
no  longer  obleeged  to  keep  one  ear  open  to  hear  if 
he  was  comin'  upstairs  drunk  or  sober.  Bless  yo' 
heart,  thar  's  not  a  woman  on  earth  that  don't  need 
some  sort  of  distraction,  an  Bill  was  a  long  sight 
better  at  distractin'  you  than  any  circus  I  've  ever 
seen.  Why,  I  even  stopped  goin'  to  'em  as  long 
as  he  was  livin',  for  it  was  a  question  every  minute 
as  to  whether  he  was  goin'  to  chuck  you  under  the 
chin  or  lam  you  on  the  head,  an'  thar  was  a  mortal 
lot  a  sprightliness  about  it.  I  reckon  I  must  have 
got  sort  a  sp'iled  by  the  excitement,  for  when  't  was 
took  away,  I  jest  didn't  seem  to  be  able  to  settle 
down.  But  thar  are  mighty  few  men  with  the  little 
ways  that  Bill  had,"  she  reflected  sadly. 

"Yet  your  present  husband  is  kind  to  you,  is  he 
not?" 

"Oh,  he's  kind  enough,  suh,"  she  replied,  with 
unutterable  contempt,  "but  thar  ain't  nothin'  in 
marriage  that  palls  so  soon  as  kindness.  It  's  unex- 
pectedness that  keeps  you  from  goin'  plum  crazy 
with  the  sameness  of  it,  an'  thar  ain't  a  bit  of 
unexpectedness  about  Jake.  He  does  everything 
so  regular  that  thar  're  times  when  I  'd  like  to  bust 
him  open  jest  to  see  how  he  is  wound  up  inside, 
Naw,  suh,  it  ain't  the  blows  that  wears  a  woman 
out,  it  's  the  mortal  sameness." 


404  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

Clearly  there  was  no  comfort  to  be  afforded  her, 
and  after  a  few  words  of  practical  advice  on  the 
subject  of  the  children's  education,  he  shook  hands 
with  her  and  started  again  in  the  direction  of  Cedar 
Hill. 

The  road  with  its  November  colours  brought 
back  to  him  the  many  hours  when  he  had  tramped 
over  it  in  cheerfulness  or  in  despair.  The  dull 
brown  stretches  of  broom  sedge,  rolling  like  a  high 
sea,  the  humble  cabins,  nestling  so  close  to  the 
ground,  the  pale  clay  road  winding  under  the 
half -bared  trees,  from  which  the  bright  leaves 
were  fluttering  downward  —  these  things  made  the 
breach  of  the  years  close  as  suddenly  as  if  the  di- 
vided scenery  upon  a  stage  had  rolled  together. 
While  he  walked  alone  here  it  was  impossible  to  be- 
lieve in  the  reality  of  his  life  in  Botetourt. 

As  he  approached  Cedar  Hill,  the  long  melancholy 
avenue  appeared  to  him  as  an  appropriate  shelter  for 
Beverly's  gentle  ghost.  He  was  surprised  to  dis- 
cover with  what  tenderness  he  was  able  to  surround 
the  memory  of  that  poetic  figure  since  he  stood  again 
in  the  atmosphere  which  had  helped  to  cultivate 
his  indefinable  charm.  In  Tappahannock  Beverly's  life 
might  still  be  read  in  the  dry  lines  of  prose,  but  be- 
neath the  historic  influences  of  Cedar  Hill  it  became, 
even  in  Ordway's  eyes,4  a  poem  of  sentiment. 

Beyond  the  garden,  he  could  see  presently,  through 
a  gap  in  the  trees,  the  silvery  blur  of  life  everlasting 
in  the  fallow  land,  which  was  steeped  in  afternoon 
sunshine.  Somewhere  from  a  nearer  meadow  there 


AT  TAPPAHANNOCK  AGAIN  405 

floated  a  faint  call  of  "  Coopee  !  Coopee  !  Coopee  ! " 
to  the  turkeys  lost  in  the  sassafras.  Then  as  he 
reached  the  house  Aunt  Mehitable's  face  looked  down 
at  him  from  a  window  in  the  second  story  ;  and  in 
response  to  her  signs  of  welcome,  he  ascended  the 
steps  and  entered  the  hall,  where  he  stopped  upon 
hearing  a  child's  voice  through  the  half  open  door 
of  the  dining-room. 

"May  I  wear  my  coral  beads  even  if  I  am  in 
mourning,  Aunt  Emily?" 

"Not  yet,  Bella,"  answered  Emily's  patient  yet 
energetic  tones.  ' '  Put  them  away  awhile  and  they  11 
be  all  the  prettier  when  you  take  them  out  again." 

"But  can't  I  mourn  for  papa  and  mamma  just  as 
well  in  my  beads  as  I  can  without  them  ? " 

"That  may  be,  dear,  but  we  must  consider  what 
other  people  will  say." 

"What  have  other  people  got  to  do  with  my  mourn- 
ing, Aunt  Emily  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  when  you  grow  up  you  11  find 
that  they  have  something  to  do  with  everything 
that  concerns  you." 

"Well,  then,  I  shan't  mourn  at  all,"  replied  Bella, 
defiantly.  "If  you  won't  let  me  mourn  in  my  coral 
beads,  I  shan't  mourn  a  single  bit  without  them." 

"There,  there,  Bella,  go  on  with  your  lesson," 
said  Emily  sternly,  "you  are  a  naughty  girl." 

At  the  sound  of  Ord way's  step  on  the  threshold, 
she  rose  to  her  feet,  with  a  frightened  movement,  and 
stood,  white  and  trembling,  her  hand  pressed  to  her 
quivering  bosom. 


406  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

"You  !"  she  cried  out  sharply,  and  there  was  a 
sound  in  her  voice  that  brought  him  with  a  rush 
to  her  side.  But  as  he  reached  her  she  drew  quickly 
away,  and  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  broke  into 
passionate  weeping. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  seen  her  lose  her 
habit  of  self-command,  and  while  he  watched  her, 
he  felt  that  each  of  her  broken  sobs  was  wrung 
from  his  own  heart. 

"I  was  a  fool  not  to  prepare  you,"  he  said,  as  he 
placed  a  restraining  hand  on  the  awe-struck  Bella. 
"  You  've  had  so  many  shocks  I  ought  to  have  known 
— I  ought  to  have  foreseen " 

At  his  words  she  looked  up  instantly,  drying  her 
tears  on  a  child's  dress  which  she  was  mending. 
"You  came  so  suddenly  that  it  startled  me,  that  is 
all,"  she  answered.  "I  thought  for  a  minute  that 
something  had  happened  to  you — that  you  were  an 
apparition  instead  of  a  reality.  I  Ve  got  into  the 
habit  of  seeing  ghosts  of  late." 

"It 's  a  bad  habit,"  he  replied,  as  he  pushed  Bella 
from  the  room  and  closed  the  door  after  her.  "But 
I  'm  not  a  ghost,  Emily,  only  a  rough  and  common 
mortal.  Baxter  wrote  me  of  Beverly's  death,  so 
I  came  thinking  that  I  might  be  of  some  little  use. 
Remember  what  you  promised  me  in  Botetourt." 

As  he  looked  at  her  now  more  closely,  he  saw  that 
the  clear  brown  of  her  skin  had  taken  a  sallow  tinge, 
as  if  she  were  very  weary,  and  that  there  were  faint 
violet  shadows  in  the  hollows  beneath  her  eyes. 
These  outward  signs  of  her  weakness  moved  him  to 


AT  TAPPAHANNOCK  AGAIN  407 

a  passion  deeper  and  tenderer  than  he  had  ever 
felt  before. 

"I  have  not  forgotten,"  she  responded,  after  a 
moment  in  which  she  had  recovered  her  usual  bright 
aspect,  "but  there  is  really  nothing  one  can  do, 
it  is  all  so  simple.  The  farm  has  already  been  sold 
for  debt,  and  so  I  shall  start  in  the  world  without 
burdens,  if  without  wealth." 

"And  the  children?     What  of  them?" 

"That  is  arranged,  too,  very  easily.  Blair  is  fif- 
teen now,  and  he  will  be  given  a  scholarship  at  college. 
The  girls  will  go  to  a  friend  of  mine,  who  has  a  board- 
ing school  and  has  made  most  reasonable  terms." 

"And  you?"  he  asked  in  a  voice  that  expressed 
something  of  the  longing  he  could  not  keep  back. 
"  Is  there  to  be  nothing  but  hard  work  for  you  in  the 
future?" 

"I  -am  not  afraid  of  work/'  she  rejoined,  smiling, 
"I  am  afraid  only  of  reaching  a  place  where  work 
does  not  count." 

As  he  made  no  answer,  she  talked  on  brightly, 
telling  him  of  her  plans  for  the  future,  of  the  progress 
the  children  had  shown  at  their  lessons,  of  the  ar- 
rangements she  had  made  for  Aunt  Mehitable  and 
Micah,  and  of  the  innumerable  changes  which  had 
occurred  since  he  went  away.  So  full  of  life,  of 
energy,  of  hopefulness,  were  her  face  and  voice  that 
but  for  her  black  dress  he  would  not  have  suspected 
that  she  had  stood  recently  beside  a  deathbed.  Yet 
as  he  listened  to  her,  his  heart  was  torn  by  the  sharp 
anguish  of  parting,  and  when  presently  she  began  to 


4o8  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

question  him  about  his  life  in  Botetourt,  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  he  forced  himself  to  reply  in  a  steady 
voice.  All  other  memories  of  her  would  give  way, 
he  felt,  before  the  picture  of  her  in  her  black  dress 
against  the  burning  logs,  with  the  red  firelight  play- 
ing over  her  white  face  and  hands. 

An  hour  later,  when  he  rose  to  go,  he  took  both 
of  her  hands  in  his,  and  bending  his  head  laid  his 
burning  forehead  against  her  open  palms. 

"Emily,"  he  said,  "tell  me  that  you  understand.'" 

For  a  moment  she  gazed  down  on  him  in  silence. 
Then,  as  he  raised  his  eyes,  she  kissed  him  so  softly 
that  it  seemed  as  if  a  spirit  had  touched  his  lips. 

"I  understand — forever,"  she  answered. 

At  her  words  he  straightened  himself,  as  though 
a  burden  had  fallen  from  him,  and  turning  slowly 
away  he  went  out  of  the  house  and  back  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Tappahannock. 


CHAPTER  III 
ALICE'S  MARRIAGE 

IT  WAS  after  ten  o'clock  when  he  returned  to 
Botetourt,  and  he  found  upon  reaching  home  that 
Lydia  had  already  gone  to  bed,  though  a  bottle  of 
cough  syrup,  placed  conspicuously  upon  his  bureau, 
bore  mute  witness  to  the  continuance  of  her  solici- 
tude. After  so  marked  a  consideration  it  seemed  to 
him  only  decent  that  he  should  swallow  a  portion 
of  the  liquid ;  and  he  was  in  the  act  of  filling  the  table- 
spoon she  had  left,  when  a  ring  at  the  door  caused 
him  to  start  until  the  medicine  spilled  from  his  hand. 
A  moment  later  the  ring  was  repeated  more  violently, 
and  as  he  was  aware  that  the  servants  had  already 
left  the  house,  he  threw  on  his  coat,  and  lighting  a 
candle,  went  hurriedly  out  into  the  hall  and  down 
the  dark  staircase.  The  sound  of  a  hand  beating 
on  the  panels  of  the  door  quickened  his  steps  almost 
into  a  run,  and  he  was  hardly  surprised,  when  he  had 
withdrawn  the  bolts,  to  find  Alice's  face  looking 
at  him  from  the  darkness  outside.  She  was  pale 
and  thin,  he  saw  at  the  first  glance,  and  there  was 
an  angry  look  in  her  eyes,  which  appeared  unnat- 
urally large  in  their  violent  circles, 

"I  thought  you  would  never  open  to  me,  papa," 
she  said  fretfully  as  she  crossed  the  threshold.  "Oh, 

409 


4io  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again!  Feel  how  cold  my 
hands  are,  I  am  half  frozen." 

Taking  her  into  his  arms,  he  kissed  her  face  passion- 
ately as  it  rested  for  an  instant  against  his  shoulder. 

"Are  you  alone,  Alice?     Where  is  your  husband?" 

Without  answering,  she  raised  her  head,  shiver- 
ing slightly,  and  then  turning  away,  entered  the 
library  where  a  log  fire  was  smouldering  to  ashes. 
As  he  threw  on  more  wood,  she  came  over  to  the 
hearth,  and  stretched  out  her  hands  to  the  warmth 
with  a  nervous  gesture.  Then  the  flame  shot  up 
and  he  saw  that  her  beauty  had  gained  rather  than 
lost  by  the  change  in  her  features.  She  appeared 
taller,  slenderer,  more  distinguished,  and  the  vivid 
black  and  white  of  her  colouring  was  intensified 
by  the  perfect  simplicity  of  the  light  cloth  gown 
and  dark  furs  she  wore. 

"Oh,  he's  at  home,"  she  answered,  breaking  the 
long  silence.  "I  mean  he  's  in  the  house  in  Henry 
Street,  but  we  had  a  quarrel  an  hour  after  we  got 
back,  so  I  put  on  my  hat  again  and  came  away. 
I  'm  not  going  back  —  not  unless  he  makes  it  bear- 
able for  me  to  live  with  him.  He  's  such — such  a 
brute  that  it 's  as  much  as  one  can  do  to  put  up 
with  it,  and  it  's  been  killing  me  by  inches  for  the 
last  months.  I  meant  to  write  you  about  it,  but  some- 
how I  could  n't,  and  yet  I  knew  that  I  could  n't 
write  at  all  without  letting  you  see  it.  Oh,  he  's 
unbearable!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  tremor  of  dis- 
gust. "You  will  never  know — you  will  never  be 
able  to  imagine  all  that  I  've  been  through!" 


ALICE'S   MARRIAGE  41 1 

"But  is  he  unkind  to  you,  Alice?     Is  he  cruel?" 

She  bared  her  arm  with  a  superb  disdainful  ges- 
ture, and  he  saw  three  rapidly  discolouring  bruises 
on  her  delicate  flesh.  The  sight  filled  him  with 
loathing  rather  than  anger,  and  he  caught  her  to 
him  almost  fiercely  as  if  he  would  hold  her  not  only 
against  Geoffrey  Heath,  but  against  herself. 

"You  shall  not  go  back  to  him,"  he  said,  "I  will 
not  permit  it!" 

"The  worst  part  is,"  she  went  on  vehemently, 
as  if  he  had  not  spoken,  "that  it  is  about  money 
— money — always  money.  He  has  millions,  his  law- 
yers told  me  so,  and  yet  he  makes  me  give  an  ac- 
count to  him  of  every  penny  that  I  spend.  I  married 
him  because  I  thought  I  should  be  rich  and  free, 
but  he  's  been  hardly  better  than  a  miser  since  the 
day  of  the  wedding.  He  wants  me  to  dress  like  a 
dowdy,  for  all  his  wealth,  and  I  can't  buy  a  ring  that 
he  does  n't  raise  a  terrible  fuss.  I  hate  him  more 
and  more  every  day  I  live,  but  it  makes  no  difference 
to  him  as  long  as  he  has  me  around  to  look  at  when- 
ever he  pleases.  I  have  to  pay  him  back  for  every 
dollar  that  he  gives  me,  and  if  I  keep  away  from  him 
and  get  cross,  he  holds  back  my  allowance.  Oh, 
it's  a  dog's  life!"  she  exclaimed  wildly,  "and  it  is 
killing  me!" 

"You  shan't  bear  it,  Alice.  As  long  as  I  'm  alive 
you  are  safe  with  me." 

' '  For  a  time  I  could  endure  it  because  of  the  trav- 
elling and  the  strange  countries,"  she  resumed, 
ignoring  the  tenderness  in  his  voice,  "but  Geoffrey 


4i2  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

was  so  frightfully  jealous  that  if  I  so  much  as  spoke 
to  a  man,  he  immediately  flew  into  a  rage.  He 
even  made  me  leave  the  opera  one  night  in  Paris 
because  a  Russian  Grand  Duke  in  the  next  box  looked 
at  me  so  hard." 

Throwing  herself  into  a  chair,  she  let  her  furs 
slip  from  her  shoulders,  and  sat  staring  moodily  into 
the  fire.  "I've  sworn  a  hundred  times  that  I'd 
leave  him,"  she  said,  "and  yet  I  've  never  done  it 
until  to-night." 

While  she  talked  on  feverishly,  he  untied  her  veil, 
which  she  had  tossed  back,  and  taking  off  her  hat, 
pressed  her  gently  against  the  cushions  he  had  placed 
in  her  chair. 

"You  look  so  tired,  darling,  you  must  rest," 
he  said. 

"Rest!  You  may  as  well  tell  me  to  sleep!"  she 
exclaimed.  Then  her  tone  altered  abruptly,  and  for 
the  first  time,  she  seemed  able  to  penetrate  beyond 
her  own  selfish  absorption.  "Oh,  you  poor  papa, 
how  very  old  you  look!"  she  said. 

Taking  his  head  in  her  arms,  she  pressed  it  to  her 
bosom  and  cried  softly  for  a  minute.  "It  's  all  my 
fault — everything  is  my  fault,  but  I  can't  help  it. 
I  'm  made  that  way."  Then  pushing  him  from  her 
suddenly,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  began  walking 
up  and  down  in  her  restless  excited  manner. 

"Let  me  get  you  a  glass  of  wine,  Alice,"  he  said, 
"you  are  trembling  all  over." 

She  shook  her  head.  "It  isn't  that— it  isn't 
that.  It's  the  awful — awful  money.  If  it  was  n't 


ALICE'S   MARRIAGE  413 

for  the  money  I  could  go  on.  Oh,  I  wish  I  'd  never 
spent  a  single  dollar!  I  wish  I  'd  always  gone  in  rags!" 

Again  he  forced  her  back  into  her  chair  and  again, 
after  a  minute  of  quiet,  she  rose  to  her  feet  and 
broke  into  hysterical  sobs. 

"All  that  I  have  is  yours,  Alice,  you  know  that," 
he  said  in  the  effort  to  soothe  her,  "  and,  besides,  your 
own  property  is  hardly  less  than  two  hundred 
thousand." 

"But  Uncle  Richard  won't  give  it  to  me,"  she 
returned  angrily.  <CI  wrote  and  begged  him  on  my 
knees  and  he  still  refused  to  let  me  have  a  penny 
more  than  my  regular  income.  It  's  all  tied  up,  he 
says,  in  investments,  and  that  until  I  am  twenty-one 
it  must  remain  in  his  hands." 

With  a  frantic  movement,  she  reached  for  her 
muff,  and  drew  from  it  a  handful  of  crumpled  papers, 
which  she  held  out  to  him.  "Geoffrey  found  these 
to-night  and  they  brought  on  the  quarrel,"  she  said. 
"Yesterday  he  gave  me  this  bracelet  and  he  seems 
to  think  I  could  live  on  it  for  a  month!"  She 
stretched  out  her  arm,  as  she  spoke,  and  showed  him 
a  glittering  circle  of  diamonds  immediately  below 
the  blue  finger  marks.  "There  's  a  sable  coat  still 
that  he  does  n't  know  a  thing  of,"  she  finished  with 
a  moan. 

Bending  under  the  lamp,  he  glanced  hurriedly 
over  the  papers  she  had  given  him,  and  then  rose  to 
his  feet  still  holding  them  in  his  hand. 

"These  alone  come  to  twenty  thousand  dollars, 
Alice,"  he  said  with  a  gentle  sternness. 


414  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

"And  there  are  others,  too,"  she  cried,  making 
no  effort  to  control  her  convulsive  sobs.  "There  are 
others  which  I  did  n't  dare  even  to  let  him  see." 

For  a  moment  he  let  her  weep  without  seeking  to 
arrest  her  tears. 

"Are  you  sure  this  will  be  a  lesson  to  you?"  he 
asked  at  last.  "Will  you  be  careful — very  careful 
from  this  time?" 

"  Oh,  I  11  never  spend  a  penny  again.  I  11  stay  in 
Botetourt  forever,'*  she  promised  desperately,  eager 
to  retrieve  the  immediate  instant  by  the  pledge  of  a 
more  or  less  uncertain  future. 

"Then  we  must  help  you,"  he  said.  "Among  us 
all — Uncle  Richard,  your  mother  and  I — it  will  surely 
be  possible." 

Pacified  at  once  by  his  assurance,  she  sat  down 
again  and  dried  her  eyes  in  her  muff. 

"It  seems  a  thousand  years  since  I  went  away," 
she  observed,  glancing  about  her  for  the  first  time. 
"Nothing  is  changed  and  yet  everything  appears  to 
be  different." 

"And  are  you  different  also? "  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  'm  older  and  I  've  seen  a  great  deal  more," 
she  responded,  with  a  laugh  which  came  almost  as  a 
shock  to  him  after  her  recent  tears,  "but  I  still  want  to 
go  everywhere  and  have  everything  just  as  I  used  to." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  determined  to  stay  in 
Botetourt  for  the  future?"  he  suggested. 

"Well,  so  I  am,  I  suppose,"  she  returned  dismally, 
"there  's  nothing  else  for  me  to  do,  is  there? " 

"No thing  that  I  see." 


ALICE'S   MARRIAGE  415 

"Then  I  may  as  well  make  up  my  mind  to  be  mis- 
erable forever.  It  's  so  frightfully  gloomy  in  this 
old  house,  is  n't  it?  How  is  mamma? " 

"She's  just  as  you  left  her,  neither  very  well 
nor  very  sick." 

"  So  it  's  exactly  what  it  always  was,  I  suppose,  and 
will  drive  me  to  distraction  in  a  few  weeks.  Is  Dick 
away?" 

"  He  's  at  college,  and  he  's  doing  finely." 

"Of  course  he  is — that  's  why  he  's  such  a  bore." 

"Let  Dick  alone,  Alice,  and  tell  me  about  yourself. 
So  you  went  to  Europe  immediately  after  I  saw  you 
in  Washington?" 

"Two  days  later.  I  was  dreadfully  seasick,  and 
Geoffrey  was  as  disagreeable  as  he  could  be,  and 
made  all  kinds  of  horrid  jokes  about  me." 

"You  went  straight  to  Paris,  did  n't  you?" 

"As  soon  as  we  landed,  but  Geoffrey  made  me 
come  away  in  three  weeks  because  he  said  I  spent  so 
much  money."  Her  face  clouded  again  at  the  re- 
collection of  her  embarrassments.  "Oh,  we  had 
awful  scenes,  but  I  had  n't  even  a  wedding  dress, 
you  know,  and  French  dressmakers  are  so  frightfully 
expensive.  One  of  them  charged  me  five  thousand 
dollars  for  a  gown — but  he  told  me  that  it  was  really 
cheap,  because  he  'd  sold  one  to  another  American 
the  day  before  for  twelve  thousand.  I  don't  know 
who  her  husband  is,"  she  added  wistfully,  "but  I 
wish  I  were  married  to  him." 

The  wildness  of  her  extravagance  depressed  him 
even  more  than  her  excessive  despair  had  done;  and 


416  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

he  wondered  if  the  vagueness  of  her  ideas  of  wealth 
was  due  to  the  utter  lack  in  her  of  the  imagination 
which  foresees  results  ?  She  had  lived  since  her  girl- 
hood in  a  quiet  Virginia  town,  her  surroundings  had 
been  comparatively  simple,  and  she  had  never  been 
thrown,  until  her  marriage,  amid  the  corrupting 
influences  of  great  wealth,  yet,  in  spite  of  these 
things,  she  had  squandered  a  fortune  as  carelessly 
as  a  child  might  have  strewed  pebbles  upon  the 
beach.  Her  regret  at  last  had  come  not  through 
realisation  of  her  fault,  but  in  the  face  of  the  imme- 
diate punishment  which  threatened  her. 

"So  he  got  you  out  of  Paris?  Well,  I  'm  glad  of 
that,"  he  remarked. 

"He  was  perfectly  brutal  about  it,  I  wish  you 
could  have  heard  him.  Then  we  went  down  into 
Italy  and  did  nothing  for  months  but  look  at  old 
pictures — at  least  I  did,  he  would  n't  come — and 
float  around  in  a  gondola  until  I  almost  died  from 
the  monotony.  It  was  only  after  I  found  a  lace 
shop,  where  they  had  the  most  beautiful  things, 
that  he  would  take  me  away,  and  then  he  insisted 
upon  going  to  some  little  place  up  in  the  Alps  because 
he  said  he  did  n't  suppose  I  could  possibly  pack  the 
mountains  into  my  trunks.  Oh,  those  dreadful 
mountains!  They  were  so  glaring  I  could  never  go 
out  of  doors  until  the  afternoon,  and  Geoffrey  would 
go  off  climbing  or  shooting  and  leave  me  alone  in  a 
horrid  little  hotel  where  there  was  nobody  but  a 
one-eyed  German  army  officer,  and  a  woman  mis- 
sionary who  was  bracing  herself  for  South  Africa. 


ALICE'S   MARRIAGE  417 

She  wore  a  knitted  jersey  all  day  and  a  collar  which 
looked  as  if  it  would  cut  her  head  off  if  she  ever  for- 
got herself  and  bent  her  neck."  Her  laughter,  the 
delicious,  irresponsible  laughter  of  a  child,  rippled 
out:  "She  asked  me  one  day  if  our  blacks  wore 
draperies?  The  ones  in  South  Africa  didn't,  and  it 
made  it  very  embarrassing  sometimes,  she  said, 
to  missionary  to  them.  Oh,  you  can't  imagine 
what  I  suffered  from  her,  and  Geoffrey  was  so  horrid 
about  it,  and  insisted  that  she  was  just  the  sort  of 
companion  that  I  needed.  So  one  day  when  he  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  writing-room  where  she  was,  I 
locked  the  door  on  the  outside  and  threw  the  key  down 
into  the  gorge.  There  was  n't  any  locksmith  nearer 
than  twenty  miles,  and  when  they  sent  for  him 
he  was  away.  Oh,  it  was  simply  too  funny  for 
words!  Geoffrey  on  the  inside  was  trying  to  break 
the  heavy  lock  and  the  proprietor  on  the  outside 
was  protesting  that  he  must  n't,  and  all  the  time 
we  could  hear  the  missionary  begging  everybody 
please  to  be  patient.  She  said  if  it  were  required  of  her 
she  was  quite  prepared  to  stay  locked  up  all  night, 
but  Geoffrey  was  n't,  so  he  swung  himself  down  by 
the  branches  of  a  tree  which  grew  near  the  window." 

All  her  old  fascination  had  come  back  to  her  with 
her  change  of  mood,  and  he  forgot  to  listen  to  her 
words  while  he  watched  the  merriment  sparkle  in 
her  deep  blue  eyes.  It  was  a  part  of  his  destiny 
that  he  should  submit  to  her  spell,  as,  he  supposed, 
even  Geoffrey  submitted  at  times. 

He   was   about   to   make    some   vague    comment 


4i 8  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

upon  her  story,  when  her  face  changed  abruptly 
into  an  affected  gravity,  and  turning  his  head,  he 
saw  that  Lydia  had  come  noiselessly  into  the  room, 
and  was  advancing  to  meet  her  daughter  with  out- 
stretched arms. 

"Why,  Alice,  my  child,  what  a  beautiful  surprise! 
When  did  you  come?" 

As  Alice  started  forward  to  her  embrace,  Ordway 
noticed  that  there  was  an  almost  imperceptible 
tightening  of  the  muscles  of  her  body. 

"Only  a  few  minutes  ago,"  she  replied,  with  the 
characteristic  disregard  of  time  which  seemed,  in 
some  way,  to  belong  to  her  inability  to  consider 
figures,  "and,  oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  be  back!  You  are 
just  as  lovely  as  ever." 

"Well,  you  are  lovelier,"  said  Lydia,  kissing  her, 
and  adding  a  moment  afterward,  as  the  result  of  her 
quick,  woman's  glance,  "what  a  charming  gown!" 

Alice  shrugged  her  shoulders,  with  a  foreign  ges- 
ture which  she  had  picked  up.  "Oh,  you  must  see 
some  of  my  others,"  she  replied,  "I  wish  that  my 
trunks  would  come,  but  I  forgot  they  were  all  sent 
to  the  other  house,  and  I  have  n't  even  a  nightgown? 
Will  you  lend  me  a  nightgown,  mamma?  I  have 
some  of  the  loveliest  you  ever  saw  which  were 
embroidered  for  me  by  the  nuns  in  a  French 
convent." 

"So,  you'll  spend  the  night?"  said  Lydia,  "I'm 
so  glad,  dear,  and  I'll  go  up  and  see  if  your  bed 
has  sheets  on  it." 

"Oh,  it's  not  only  for  the  night,"  returned  Alice, 


ALICE'S    MARRIAGE  419 

defiantly,  "I've  come  back  for  good.  I've  left 
Geoffrey,  have  n't  I,  papa? " 

"I  hope  so,  darling,"  answered  Ordway,  coming 
for  the  first  time  over  to  where  they  stood. 

"  Left  Geoffrey  ? "  repeated  Lydia.  "  Do  you  mean 
you've  separated?" 

"I  mean  I  'm  never  going  back  again — that  I  de- 
test him — that  I  'd  rather  die — that  I  '11  kill  myself 
before  I  '11  do  it." 

Lydia  received  her  violence  with  the  usual  resigned 
sweetness  that  she  presented  to  an  impending  crisis. 

"But,  my  dear,  my  dear,  a  divorce  is  a  horrible 
thing!"  she  wailed. 

"Well,  it  isn't  half  so  horrible  as  Geoffrey," 
retorted  Alice. 

Ordway,  who  had  turned  away  again  as  Lydia 
spoke,  came  forward  at  the  girl's  angry  words,  and 
caught  the  hand  that  she  had  stretched  out  as  if  to 
push  her  mother  from  her. 

"Let's  be  humbly  grateful  that  we've  got  her 
back,"  he  said,  smiling,  "while  we  prepare  her  bed." 


CHAPTER    IV 
THE  POWER  OF  THE  BLOOD 

WHEN  he  came  out  into  the  hall  the  next  morning, 
Lydia  met  him.  in  her  dressing-gown,  on  her  way 
from  Alice's  room. 

"  How  is  she? "  he  asked  eagerly.     "  Did  she  sleep? " 

"  No,  she  was  very  restless,  so  I  stayed  with  her. 
She  went  home  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago." 

"Went  home?  Do  you  mean  she  's  gone  back 
to  that  brute?" 

A  servant's  step  sounded  upon  the  staircase, 
and  with  her  unfailing  instinct  for  propriety,  she 
drew  back  into  his  room  and  lowered  her  voice. 

"She  said  that  she  was  too  uncomfortable  without 
her  clothes  and  her  maid,  but  I  think  she  had  defi- 
nitely made  up  her  mind  to  return  to  him." 

"But  when  did  she  change?  You  heard  her  say 
last  night  that  she  would  rather  kill  herself." 

"Oh,  you  know  Alice,"  she  responded  a  little 
wearily;  and  for  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  him 
that  the  exact  knowledge  of  Alice  might  belong, 
after  all,  not  to  himself,  but  to  her. 

"You  think,  then,"  he  asked,  "that  she  meant 
none  of  her  violent  protestations  of  last  night?" 

"  I  am  sure  that  she  meant  them  while  she  uttered 
them — not  a  minute  afterward.  She  can't  help 

420 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  BLOOD          421 

being  dramatic  any  more  than  she  can  help  being 
beautiful." 

"Are  you  positive  that  you  said  nothing  to  bring 
about  her  decision?  Did  you  influence  her  in  any 
way?" 

"I  did  nothing  more  that  tell  her  that  she  must 
make  her  choice  once  for  all — that  she  must  either 
go  back  to  Geoffrey  Heath  and  keep  up  some  kind 
of  appearances,  or  publicly  separate  herself  from 
him.  I  let  her  see  quite  plainly  that  a  state  of  con- 
tinual quarrels  was  impossible  and  indecent." 

Her  point  of  view  was  so  entirely  sensible  that 
he  found  himself  hopelessly  overpowered  by  its  un- 
assailable logic. 

"So  she  has  decided  to  stick  to  him  for  better 
or  for  worse,  then?" 

"For  the  present  at  all  events.  She  realised 
fully,  I  think,  how  much  she  would  be  obliged  to 
sacrifice  by  returning  home?" 

"Sacrifice?   Good  God,  what?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  well,  you  see,  Geoffrey  lives  in  a  fashion 
that  is  rather  grand  for  Botetourt.  He  travels  a 
great  deal,  and  he  makes  her  gorgeous  presents 
when  he  is  in  a  good  humour.  She  seemed  to  feel 
that  if  we  could  only  settle  these  bills  for  her,  she 
would  be  able  to  bring  about  a  satisfactory  adjust- 
ment. I  was  surprised  to  find  how  quietly  she  took 
it  all  this  morning.  She  had  forgotten  entirely,  I 
believe,  the  scene  she  made  downstairs  last  night." 

This  was  his  old  Alice, he  reflected  in  baffled 
silence,  and  apparently  he  would  never  attain  to  the 


422  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

critical  judgment  of  her.  Well,  in  any  case,  he  was 
able  to  do  justice  to  Lydia's  admirable  detachment. 

"I  suppose  I  may  have  a  talk  with  Heath  any- 
way?" he  said  at  last. 

"She  particularly  begs  you  not  to,  and  I  feel 
strongly  that  she  is  right." 

"Does  she  expect  me  to  sit  quietly  by  and  see  it 
go  on  forever?  Why,  there  were  bruises  on  her 
arm  that  he  had  made  with  his  fingers." 

Lydia  paled  as  she  always  did  when  one  of  the 
brutal  facts  of  life  was  thrust  on  her  notice. 

"Oh,  she  doesn't  think  that  will  happen  again. 
It  appears  that  she  had  lost  her  temper  and  tried  her 
best  to  infuriate  him.  He  is  still  very  much  in  love 
with  her  at  times,  and  she  hopes  that  by  a  little 
diplomacy  she  may  be  able  to  arrange  matteis 
between  them." 

"Diplomacy  with  that  insufferable  cad!     Pshaw!" 

Lydia  sighed,  not  in  exasperation,  but  with  the 
martyr's  forbearance. 

"It  is  really  a  crisis  in  Alice's  life,"  she  said,  "and 
we  must  treat  it  with  seriousness." 

"  I  was  never  more  serious  in  my  life.  I  'm  mel- 
ancholy. I  'm  abject." 

41  Last  night  she  told  me  that  Geoffrey  threatened 
to  go  West  and  get  a  divorce,  and  this  frightened  her." 

"  But  I  thought  it  was  the  very  thing  she  wanted," 
he  urged  in  bewilderment.  "Hadn't  she  left  him 
last  night  for  good  and  all?" 

"She  might  leave  him,  but  she  could  not  give  up 
his  money.  It  is  impossible,  I  suppose,  for  you  to 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  BLOOD          423 

realise  her  complete  dependence  upon  wealth — the 
absurdity  of  her  ideas  about  the  value  of  money. 
Why,  her  income  of  five  thousand  which  Uncle 
Richard  allows  her  would  not  last  her  a  month." 

"I  realised  a  little  of  this  when  I  glanced  over 
those  bills  she  gave  me." 

"Of  course  we  shall  pay  those  ourselves,  but  what 
is  twenty  thousand  dollars  to  her,  when  Geoffrey 
seems  to  have  paid  out  a  hundred  thousand  already. 
He  began,  I  can  see,  by  being  very  generous,  but  she 
confessed  to  me  this  morning  that  other  bills  were 
still  to  come  in  which  she  would  not  dare  to  let  him 
see.  I  told  her  that  she  must  try  to  meet  these  out 
of  her  income,  and  that  we  would  reduce  our  living 
expenses  as  much  as  possible  in  order  to  pay  those 
she  gave  you." 

"I  shall  ask  Uncle  Richard  to  advance  this  out  of 
my  personal  property,"  he  said. 

"  But  he  will  not  do  it.  You  know  how  scrupulous 
he  is  about  all  such  matters,  and  he  told  me  the  other 
day  that  your  father's  will  had  clearly  stated  that 
the  money  was  not  to  be  touched  unless  he  should 
deem  it  for  your  interest  to  turn  it  over  to  you." 

Her  command  of  the  business  situation  amazed 
him,  until  he  remembered  her  long  conversations 
with  Richard  Ordway,  whose  interests  were  confined 
within  strictly  professional  limits.  His  fatal  mistake 
in  the  past,  he  saw  now,  was  that  he  had  approached 
her,  not  as  a  fellow  mortal,  but  as  a  divinity ;  for  the 
farther  he  receded  from  the  attitude  of  worship,  the 
more  was  he  able  to  appreciate  the  quality  of  her  prac- 


424  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

tical  virtues.  In  spite  of  her  poetic  exterior,  it  was 
in  the  rosy  glow  c£  romance  that  she  showed  now  as 
barest  of  attractions.  The  bottle  of  cough  syrup 
on  his  bureau  still  testified  to  her  ability  to  sympa- 
thise in  all  cases  where  the  imagination  was  not 
required  to  lend  its  healing  insight. 

"But  surely  it  is  to  my  interest  to  save  Alice,"  he 
said  after  a  pause. 

"  I  think  he  will  feel  that  it  must  be  done  by  the 
family,  by  us  all,"  she  answered,  "he  has  always  had 
so  keen  a  sense  of  honour  in  little  things." 

An  hour  later,  when  he  broached  the  subject  to 
Richard  in  his  office,  he  found  that  Lydia  was  right, 
as  usual,  in  her  prediction;  and  with  a  flash  or  ironic 
humour,  he  pictured  her  as  enthroned  above  his 
destiny,  like  a  fourth  fate  who  spun  the  unyielding 
thread  of  common  sense. 

"  Of  course  the  debt  must  be  paid  if  it  is  a  condition 
of  Alice's  reconciliation  with  her  husband,"  said 
the  old  man,  "but  I  shall  certainly  not  sacrifice 
your  securities  in  order  to  do  it.  Such  an  act  would 
be  directly  against  the  terms  of  your  father's  will." 

There  was  no  further  concession  to  be  had  from  him, 
so  Daniel  turned  to  his  work,  half  in  disappointment, 
half  in  admiration  of  his  uncle's  loyalty  to  the  written 
word. 

When  he  went  home  to  luncheon  Lydia  told  him 
that  she  had  seen  Alice,  who  had  appeared  seriously 
disturbed,  though  she  had  shown  her,  with  evident 
enjoyment,  a  number  of  exquisite  Paris  gowns. 
"She  had  a  sable  coat,  also,  in  her  closet,  which 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  BLOOD          425 

could  not  have  cost  less,  I  should  have  supposed, 
than  forty  thousand  dollars — the  kind  of  coat  that 
a  Russian  Grand  Duchess  might  have  worn — but 
when  I  spoke  of  it,  she  grew  very  much  depressed 
and  changed  the  subject.  Did  you  talk  to  Uncle 
Richard?  and  was  I  right?" 

"You're  always  right,"  he  admitted  despond- 
ently, "but  do  you  think,  then,  that  I  'd  better  not 
see  Alice  to-day?" 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  wiser  to  wait  until  to-morrow. 
Geoffrey  is  in  a  very  difficult  humour,  she  says, 
more  brutally  indifferent  to  her  than  he  has  been 
since  her  marriage." 

"Isn't  that  all  the  more  reason  she  ought  to  have 
her  family  about  her?" 

"She  says  not.  It 's  easier  to  deal  with  him,  she 
feels,  alone — and  any  way  Uncle  Richard  will  call 
there  this  afternoon." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Richard! "  he  groaned,  as  he  went  out. 

In  the  evening  there  was  no  news  beyond  a  reas- 
suring visit  from  Richard  Ordway,  who  stopped  by, 
for  ten  minutes,  on  his  way  from  an  interview  with 
Geoffrey  Heath.  "To  tell  the  truth  I  found  him 
less  obstinate  than  I  had  expected,"  he  said,  "and 
there  's  no  doubt,  I  fear,  that  he  has  some  show  of 
justice  upon  his  side.  He  has  agreed  now  to  make 
Alice  a  very  liberal  allowance  from  the  first  of  April, 
provided  she  will  promise  to  make  no  more  bills,  and 
to  live  until  then  within  her  own  income.  He  told 
me  that  he  was  obliged  to  retrench  for  the  next  six 
months  in  order  to  meet  his  obligations  without 


426  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

touching  his  investments.  It  seems  that  he  had 
bought  very  largely  on  margin,  and  the  shrinkages 
in  stocks  has  forced  him  to  pay  out  a  great  deal  of 
money  recently." 

"I  knew  you  would  manage  it,  Uncle,  I  relied 
on  you  absolutely,"  said  Lydia,  sweetly. 

"I  did  only  my  duty,  my  child,"  he  responded, 
as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

The  one  good  result  of  the  anxiety  of  the  last 
twenty-four  hours — the  fact  that  it  had  brought 
Lydia  and  himself  into  a  kind  of  human  connection 
— had  departed,  Daniel  observed,  when  he  sat  down 
to  dinner,  separated  from  her  by  six  yellow  candle 
shades  and  a  bowl  of  gorgeous  chrysanthemums. 
After  a  casual  comment  upon  the  soup,  and  the 
pleasant  reminder  that  Dick  would  be  home  for 
Thanksgiving,  the  old  uncomfortable  silence  fell 
between  them.  She  had  just  remarked  that  the 
roast  was  a  little  overdone,  and  he  had  agreed  with 
her  from  sheer  politeness,  when  a  sharp  ring  at 
the  bell  sent  the  old  Negro  butler  hurrying  out 
into  the  hall.  An  instant  later  there  was  a  sound 
of  rapid  footsteps,  and  Alice,  wearing  a  long  coat, 
which  slipped  from  her  bare  shoulders  as  she  entered, 
came  rapidly  forward  and  threw  herself  into  Ordway 's 
arms,  with  an  uncontrollable  burst  of  tears. 

"My  child,  my  child,  what  is  it?"  he  questioned, 
while  Lydia,  rising  from  the  table  with  a  disturbed 
face,  but  an  unruffled  manner,  remarked  to  the  butler 
that  he  need  not  serve  the  dessert. 

"Come  into  the  library,  Alice,  it  is  quieter  there," 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  BLOOD  427 

she  said,  putting  her  arm  about  her  daughter,  with 
an  authoritative  pressure. 

"O,  papa,  I  will  never  see  him  again!  You 
must  tell  him  that.  I  shall  never  see  him  again," 
she  cried,  regardless  alike  of  Lydia's  entreaties  and  the 
restraining  presence  of  the  butler.  "Go  to  him  to- 
night and  tell  him  that  I  will  never — never  go  back." 

"I  '11  tell  him,  Alice,  and  1 11  do  it  with  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure,"  he  answered  soothingly,  as  he  led 
her  into  the  library  and  closed  the  door. 

"But  you  must  go  at  once.  I  want  him  to  know 
it  at  once." 

"I  '11  go  this  very  hour — I  '11  go  this  very  minute, 
if  you  honestly  mean  it." 

"Would  it  not  be  better  to  wait  until  to-morrow, 
Alice?"  suggested  Lydia.  "Then  you  will  have  time 
to  quiet  down  and  to  see  things  rationally." 

"I  don't  want  to  quiet  down,"  sobbed  Alice, 
angrily,  "I  want  him  to  know  now — this  very 
instant — that  he  has  gone  too  far — that  I  will  not 
stand  it.  He  told  me  a  minute  ago — the  beast! — - 
that  he  'd  like  to  see  the  man  who  would  be  fool 
enough  to  keep  me — that  if  I  went  he  'd  find  a  hand- 
somer woman  within  a  week! " 

"Well,  I  11  see  him,  darling,"  said  Ordway.  "Sit 
here  with  your  mother,  and  have  a  good  cry  and 
talk  things  over." 

As  he  spoke  he  opened  the  door  and  went  out  into 
the  hall,  where  he  got  into  his  overcoat. 

"Remember  last  night  and  don't  say  too  much, 
Daniel,"  urged  Lydia  in  a  warning  whisper,  coming 


428  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

after  him,  "she  is  quite  hysterical  now  and  does  not 
realise  what  she  is  saying." 

"Oh,  I  11  remember,"  he  returned,  and  a  minute 
later,  he  closed  the  front  door  behind  him. 

On  his  way  to  the  Heath  house  in  Henry  Street, 
he  planned  dispassionately  his  part  in  the  coming 
interview,  and  he  resolved  that  he  would  state 
Alice's  position  with  as  little  show  of  feeling  as  it 
was  possible  for  him  to  express.  He  would  tell  Heath 
candidly  that,  with  his  consent,  Alice  should  never 
return  to  him,  but  he  would  say  this  in  a  perfectly 
quiet  and  inoffensive  manner.  If  there  was  to  be 
a  scene,  he  concluded  calmly,  it  should  be  made 
entirely  by  Geoffrey.  Then,  as  he  went  on,  he  said 
to  himself,  that  he  had  grown  tired  and  old,  and  that 
he  lacked  now  the  decision  which  should  carry  one 
triumphantly  over  a  step  like  this.  Even  his  anger 
against  Alice's  husband  had  given  way  to  a  dragging 
weariness,  which  seemed  to  hold  him  back  as  he 
ascended  the  brown-stone  steps  and  laid  his  hand  on 
the  door  bell.  When  the  door  was  opened,  and  he  fol- 
lowed the  servant  through  the  long  hall,  ornamented 
by  marble  statues,  to  the  smoking-room  at  the  end,  he 
was  conscious  again  of  that  sense  of  utter  incapacity 
which  had  been  bred  in  him  by  his  life  in  Botetourt. 

Geoffrey,  after  a  full  dinner,  was  lounging,  with 
a  cigar  and  a  decanter  of  brandy,  over  a  wood  fire, 
and  as  his  visitor  entered  he  rose  from  his  chair  with 
a  lazy  shake  of  his  whole  person. 

"I  don't  believe  I  've  ever  met  you  before,  Mr.  Ord- 
way,"  he  remarked,  as  he  held  out  his  hand,  "though 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  BLOOD 


I  've  known  you  by  sight  for  several  years.  Won't, 
you  sit  down?"  With  a  single  gesture  he  motioned 
to  a  chair  and  indicated  the  cigars  and  the  brandy 
on  a  little  table  at  his  right  hand. 

At  his  first  glance  Ordway  had  observed  that  he 
had  been  in  a  rage  or  drinking  heavily  —  probably 
both;  and  he  was  seized  by  a  sudden  terror  at  the 
thought  that  Alice  had  been  so  lately  at  the  mercy 
of  this  large  red  and  black  male  animal.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  the  disgust  with  which  the  man  inspired  him,  he  was, 
forced  to  admit  that  as  far  as  amere  physical  specimen 
went,  he  had  rarely  seen  his  equal.  His  body  was 
superbly  built,  and  but  for  his  sullen  and  brutal 
expression,  his  face  would  have  been  remarkable  for 
its  masculine  beauty. 

"No,  I  won't  sit  down,  thank  you,"  replied 
Ordway,  after  a  short  pause.  "What  I  have  to  say 
can  be  said  better  standing,  I  think." 

"Then  fire  away!  "  returned  Geoffrey,  with  a  coarse 
laugh.  "It's  about  Alice,  I  suppose,  and  it's  most 
likely  some  darn  rot  she  's  sent  you  with." 

"It  's  probably  less  rot  than  you  imagine.  I 
have  taken  it  upon  myself  to  forbid  her  returning 
to  you.  Your  treatment  of  her  has  made  it  im- 
possible that  she  should  remain  in  your  hoiise." 

"Well,  I  've  treated  her  a  damned  sight  better 
than  she  deserved,"  rejoined  Geoffrey,  scowling, 
while  his  face,  inflamed  by  the  brandy  he  had  drunk, 
burned  to  a  dull  red;  "it  isn^t  her  fault,  I  can  tell 
you,  that  she  hasn't  put  me  into  the  poorhouse: 
in  six  months." 


430  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

"I  admit  that  she  has  been  very  extravagant, 
and  so  does  she." 

"Extravagant?  So  that  is  what  you  call  it,  is  it? 
Well,  she  spent  more  in  three  weeks  in  Paris  than 
my  father  did  in  his  whole  lifetime.  I  paid  out  a 
hundred  thousand  for  her,  and  even  then  I  could 
hardly  get  her  away.  But  I  won't  pay  the  bills  any 
longer,  I  've  told  her  that.  They  may  go  into  court 
about  it  and  get  their  money  however  they  can." 

"In  the  future  there  will  be  no  question  of  that." 

"You  think  so,  do  you?  Now  I  11  bet  you  what- 
ever you  please  that  she  's  back  here  in  this  house 
again  before  the  week  is  up.  She  knows  on  which  side 
her  bread  is  buttered,  and  she  won't  stay  in  that 
dull  old  place,  not  for  all  you  're  worth." 

"She  shall  never  return  to  you  with  my  consent." 

"Did  she  wait  for  that  to  marry  me?"  demanded 
Geoffrey,  laughing  uproariously  at  his  wit,  "though 
I  can  tell  you  now,  that  it  makes  precious  little 
difference  to  me  whether  she  comes  or  stays." 

"She  shall  never  do  it,"  said  Ordway,  losing  his 
temper.  Then  as  he  uttered  the  words,  he  remem- 
bered Lydia's  warning  and  added  more  quietly, 
"  she  shall  never  do  it  if  I  can  help  it." 

"It  makes  precious  little  difference  to  me,"  re- 
peated Geoffrey,  "but  shell  be  a  blamed  fool  if 
she  doesn't,  and  for  all  her  foolishness,  she  isn't 
so  big  a  fool  as  you  think  her." 

"She  has  been  wrong  in  her  extravagance,  as  I 
said  before,  but  she  is  very  young,  and  her  childish- 
.ness  is  no  excuse  for  your  brutality." 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  BLOOD  431 

Rage,  or  the  brandy,  or  both  together,  flamed  up 
hotly  in  Geoffrey's  face. 

"I  'd  like  to  know  what  right  you  have  to  talk 
about  brutality?"  he  sneered. 

"I  ' ve  the  right  of  any  man  to  keep  another  from 
ill-treating  his  daughter." 

"Well,  you're  a  nice  one  with  your  history  to 
put  on  these  highfaluting,  righteous  airs,  are  n't 
you?" 

For  an  instant  the  unutterable  disgust  in  Ord- 
way's  mind  was  like  physical  nausea.  What  use 
was  it,  after  all,  to  bandy  speeches,  he  questioned, 
with  a  mere  drunken  animal?  His  revulsion  of 
feeling  had  moved  him  to  take  a  step  toward  the 
door,  when  the  sound  of  the  words  Geoffrey  uttered 
caused  him  to  stop  abruptly  and  stand  listening. 

' '  Much  good  you  11  do  her  when  she  hears  about 
that  woman  you  've  been  keeping  down  at  Tappa- 
hannock.  As  if  I  didn't  know  that  you  'd 
been  running  back  there  again  after  that  Brooke 
girl—" 

The  words  were  choked  back  in  his  throat,  for 
before  they  had  passed  his  lips  Ordway  had 
swung  quickly  round  and  struck  him  full  in  the 
mouth. 

With  the  blow  it  seemed  to  Daniel  that  all  the 
violence  in  his  nature  was  loosened.  A  sensation 
that  was  like  the  joy  of  health,  of  youth,  of  manhood, 
rushed  through  his  veins,  and  in  the  single  exalted 
instant  when  he  looked  down  on  Geoffrey's  pros- 
trate figure,  he  felt  himself  to  be  not  only  trium- 


432  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

phant,  but  immortal.  All  that  his  years  of  self- 
sacrifice  had  not  done  for  him  was  accomplished 
by  that  explosive  rush  of  energy  through  his  arm. 

There  was  blood  on  his  hand  and  as  he  glanced 
down,  he  saw  that  Geoffrey,  with  a  bleeding  mouth, 
was  struggling,  dazed  and  half  drunk,  to  his  feet. 
Ordway  looked  at  him  and  laughed — the  laugh  of  the 
boastful  and  victorious  brute.  Then  turning  quickly, 
he  took  up  his  hat  and  went  out  of  the  house  and 
down  into  the  street. 

The  physical  exhilaration  produced  by  the  mus- 
cular effort  was  still  tingling  through  his  body,  and 
while  it  lasted  he  felt  younger,  stronger,  and  possessed 
of  a  courage  that  was  almost  sublime.  When  he 
reached  home  and  entered  the  library  where  Lydia 
and  Alice  were  sitting  together,  there  was  a  boyish 
lightness  and  confidence  in  his  step. 

"Oh,  papa!"  cried  Alice,  standing  up,  "tell  me 
about  it.  What  did  he  do  ? " 

Ordway  laughed  again,  the  same  laugh  with  which 
he  had  looked  down  on  Geoffrey  lying  half  stunned 
at  his  feet. 

"I  did  n't  wait  to  see,"  he  answered,  "but  I  rather 
think  he  got  up  off  the  floor." 

"You  mean  you  knocked  him  down?"  asked 
Lydia,  in  an  astonishment  that  left  her  breathless. 

"I  cut  his  mouth,  I  'm  sure,"  he  replied,  wiping 
his  hand  from  which  the  blood  ran,  "and  I  hope  I 
knocked  out  one  or  two  of  his  teeth." 

Then  the  exhilaration  faded  as  quickly  as  it  had 
come,  for  as  Lydia  looked  up  at  him,  while  he  stood 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  BLOOD  433 

there  wiping  the  blood  from  his  bruised  knuckles, 
he  saw,  for  the  first  time  since  his  return  to  Bote- 
tourt,  that  there  was  admiration  in  her  eyes.  So 
it  was  the  brute,  after  all,  and  not  +he  spirit  that 
had  triumphed  over  her. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  HOUSE  OF  DREAMS 

FROM  that  night  there  was  a  new  element  in 
Lydia's  relation  to  him,  an  increased  consideration, 
almost  a  deference,  as  if,  for  the  first  time,  he  had 
shown  himself  capable  of  commanding  her  respect. 
This  change,  which  would  have  pleased  him,  doubt- 
less, twenty  years  before,  had  only  the  effect  now 
of  adding  to  his  depression,  for  he  saw  in  it  a  tribute 
from  his  wife  not  to  his  higher,  but  to  his  lower 
nature.  All  his  patient  ideals,  all  his  daily  self- 
sacrifice,  had  not  touched  her  as  had  that  one  in- 
stant's violence ;  and  it  occurred  to  him,  with  a  grow- 
ing recognition  of  the  hopeless  inconsistency  of  life, 
that  if  he  had  treated  her  with  less  delicacy,  less 
generosity,  if  he  had  walked  roughshod  over  her 
feminine  scruples,  instead  of  yielding  to  them,  she 
might  have  entertained  for  him  by  this  time  quite  a 
wholesome  wifely  regard.  Then  the  mere  possi- 
bility disgusted  him,  and  he  saw  that  to  have  com- 
promised with  her  upon  any  lower  plane  would  have 
been  always  morally  repugnant  to  him.  After  all,  the 
dominion  of  the  brute  was  not  what  he  was  seeking. 

On  the  morning  after  his  scene  with  Geoffrey, 
Alice  came  to  him  and  begged  for  the  minutest 
particulars  of  the  quarrel.  She  wanted  to  know  how 

434 


THE    HOUSE   OF   DREAMS  43  £ 

it  had  begun?  If  Geoffrey  had  been  really  horrible? 
And  if  he  had  noticed  the  new  bronze  dragon  she 
had  bought  for  the  hall?  Upon  his  replying  that 
he  had  not,  she  seemed  disappointed,  he  thought, 
for  a  minute. 

"It's  very  fine,"  she  said,  "I  bought  it  from 
what  's-his-name,  that  famous  man  in  Paris?  If 
I  ever  have  money  enough  I  shall  get  the  match  to 
it,  so  there  '11  be  the  pair  of  them."  Then  seeing  his 
look  of  astonishment,  she  hastened  to  correct  the 
impression  she  had  made.  "Of  course,  I  mean  that 
I  'd  like  to  have  done  it,  if  I  had  been  going  to  live 
there." 

"It  would  take  more  than  a  bronze  dragon,  or  a 
pair  of  them,  to  make  that  house  a  home,  dear,"  was 
his  only  comment. 

"But  it 's  very  handsome,"  she  remarked  after  a 
moment,  "everything  in  it  is  so  much  more  costly 
than  the  things  here."  He  made  no  rejoinder, 
and  she  added  with  vehemence,  "but  of  course,  I 
would  n't  go  back,  not  even  if  it  were  a  palace! " 

Then  a  charming  merriment  seized  her,  and  she 
clung  to  him  and  kissed  him  and  called  him  a  dozen 
silly  pet  names.  "No,  she  won't  ever,  ever  play 
in  that  horrid  old  house  again,"  she  sang  gaily 
between  her  kisses. 

For  several  days  these  exuberant  spirits  lasted, 
and  then  he  prepared  himself  to  meet  the  inevitable 
reaction.  Her  looks  drooped,  she  lost  her  colour 
and  grew  obviously  bored,  and  in  the  end  she  com- 
plained openly  that  there  was  nothing  for  her  to  do 


436  THE    ANCIENT    LAW 

in  the  house,  and  that  she  could  n't  go  out  of  doors 
because  she  had  n't  the  proper  clothes.  To  his 
reminder  that  it  was  she  herself  who  had  pre- 
vented his  sending  for  her  trunks,  she  replied 
that  there  was  plenty  of  time,  and  that,  "besides 
nobody  could  pack  them  unless  she  was  there  to 
overlook  it." 

"If  anybody  is  obliged  to  go  back  there,  for 
heaven's  sake,  let  me  be  the  one,"  he  urged  des- 
perately at  last. 

"To  knock  out  more  of  poor  Geoffrey's  teeth?  Oh, 
you  naughty,  naughty,  papa!" — she  cried,  lifting 
a.  reproving  finger.  The  next  instant  her  laughter 
bubbled  out  at  the  delightful  picture  of  "papa  in 
the  midst  of  her  Paris  gowns.  I  'd  be  so  afraid 
you  'd  roll  up  Geoffrey  in  my  precious  laces,"  she 
protested,  half  seriously. 

For  a  week  nothing  more  was  said  on  the  subject, 
and  then  she  remarked  irritably  that  her  room  was 
cold  and  she  had  n't  her  quilted  silk  dressing-gown. 
When  he  asked  her  to  ride  with  him,  she  declared 
that  her  old  habit  was  too  tight  for  her  and  her  new 
one  was  at  the  other  house.  When  he  suggested 
driving  instead,  she  replied  that  she  had  n't  her 
fur  coat  and  she  would  certainly  freeze  without  it. 
At  last  one  bright,  cold  day,  when  he  came  up  to 
luncheon,  Lydia  told  him,  with  her  strange  calmness, 
"that  Alice  had  gone  back  to  her  husband. 

"I  knew  it  would  come  in  time,"  she  said,  and  he 
bowed  again  before  her  unerring  prescience. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell    me  that  she's  willing  to 


THE    HOUSE   OF   DREAMS  437 

put  up  with  Heath  for  the  sake  of  a  little  extra 
luxury?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  that  's  a  part  of  it.  She  likes  the  newness 
of  the  house  and  the  air  of  costliness  about  it,  but 
most  of  all,  she  feels  that  she  could  never  settle  down 
to  our  monotonous  way  of  living.  Geoffrey  prom- 
ised her  to  take  her  to  Europe  again  in  the  summer 
and  I  think  she  began  to  grow  restless  when  it  ap- 
peared that  she  might  have  to  give  it  up." 

"But  one  of  us  could  have  taken  her  to  Europe, 
if  that  's  all  she  wanted.  You  could  have  gone  with 
her." 

"  Not  in  Alice's  way,  we  could  never  have  afforded 
it.  She  told  me  this  when  I  offered  to  go  with  her 
if  she  would  definitely  separate  from  Geoffrey." 

"Then  you  didn't  want  her  to  go  back?  You 
did  n't  encourage  it?" 

' '  I  encouraged  her  to  behave  with  decency — and 
this  is  n't  decent." 

"  No,  I  admit  that.     It  decidedly  is  not." 

"Yet  we  have  no  assurance  that  she  won't  fly  in 
upon  us  at  dinner  to-night,  with  all  the  servants 
about,"  she  reflected  mournfully. 

His  awful  levity  broke  out  as  it  always  did  when- 
ever she  invoked  the  sanctity  of  convention. 

"In  that  case  hadn't  we  better  serve  ourselves 
until  she  has  made  up  her  mind?"  he  inquired. 

But  the  submission  of  the  martyr  is  proof  even 
against  caustic  wit,  and  she  looked  at  him,  after  a 
minute,  with  a  smile  of  infinite  patience. 

"For  myself  I  can  bear  anything,"  she  answered, 


438  THE    ANCIENT    LAW 

"but  I  feel  that  for  her  it  is  shocking  to  make  things 
so  public." 

It  was  shocking.  In  spite  of  his  flippancy  he  felt 
the  vulgarity  of  it  as  acutely  as  she  felt  it ;  and  he  was 
conscious  of  something  closely  akin  to  relief,  when 
Richard  Or d way  dropped  in  after  dinner  to  tell  them 
that  Alice  and  Geoffrey  had  come  to  a  complete 
reconciliation. 

" But  will  it  last?"  Lydia  questioned,  in  an  uneasy 
voice. 

"We  '11  hope  so  at  all  events,"  replied  the  old 
man,  "they  appeared  certainly  to  be  very  friendly 
when  I  came  away.  Whatever  happens  it  is  surely 
to  Alice's  interest  that  she  should  be  kept  out  of 
a  public  scandal." 

They  were  still  discussing  the  matter,  after  Richard 
had  gone,  when  the  girl  herself  ran  in,  bringing 
Geoffrey,  and  fairly  brilliant  with  life  and  spirits. 

"We  've  decided  to  forget  everything  disagree- 
able," she  said,  "we  're  going  to  begin  over  again 
and  be  nice  and  jolly,  and  if  I  don't  spend  too  much 
money,  we  are  going  to  Egypt  in  April." 

"If  you're  happy,  then  I  'm  satisfied,"  returned 
Ordway,  and  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Geoffrey  by 
way  of  apology. 

To  do  the  young  man  justice,  he  appeared  to 
cherish  no  resentment  for  the  blow,  though  he  still 
bore  a  scar  on  his  upper  lip.  He  looked  heavy  and 
handsome,  and  rather  amiable  in  a  dull  way,  and  the 
one  discovery  Daniel  made  about  him  was  that 
he  entertained  a  profound  admiration  for  Richard 


THE   HOUSE   OF   DREAMS  439 

Ordway.    Still,  when  everybody  in  Botetourt  shared 
his  sentiment,  this  was  hardly  deserving  of  notice. 

As  the  weeks  went  on  it  looked  as  if  peace  were 
really  restored,  and  even  Lydia's  face  lost  its  anx- 
ious foreboding,  when  she  gazed  on  the  assembled 
family  at  Thanksgiving.  Dick  had  grown  into  a 
quiet,  distinguished  looking  young  fellow,  more  than 
ever  like  his  Uncle  Richard,  and  it  was  touching  to 
watch  his  devotion  to  his  delicate  mother.  At  least 
Lydia  possessed  one  enduring  consolation  in  life, 
Ordway  reflected,  with  a  rush  of  gratitude. 

In  the  afternoon  Alice  drove  with  him  out  into 
the  country,  along  the  pale  brown  November  roads, 
and  he  felt,  while  he  sat  beside  her,  with  her  hand 
clasped  tightly  in  his  under  the  fur  robe,  that  she 
was  again  the  daughter  of  his  dreams,  who  had 
flown  to  his  arms  in  the  terrible  day  of  his  home- 
coming. She  was  in  one  of  her  rare  moods  of  seri- 
ousness, and  when  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  they  held  a  new  softness,  a  deeper blueness. 
Something  in  her  face  brought  back  to  him  the  mem- 
ory of  Emily  as  she  had  looked  down  at  him  when 
he  knelt  before  her:  and  again  he  was  aware  of  some 
subtle  link  which  bound  together  in  his  thoughts 
the  two  women  whom  he  loved. 

"There  's  something  I  've  wanted  to  tell  you, 
papa,  first  of  all,"  said  Alice,  pressing  his  hand,  "I 
want  you  to  know  it  before  anybody  else  because 
you  've  always  loved  me  and  stood  by  me  from  the 
beginning.  Now  shut  your  eyes  while  I  tell  you, 
and  hold  fast  to  my  hand.  O  papa,  there  's  to  be 


440  THE   ANCIENT    LAW 

really  and  truly  a  baby  in  the  spring,  and  even  if 
it  's  a  boy — I  hope  it  will  be  a  girl — you  '11  promise  to 
love  it  and  be  good  to  it,  won't  you? " 

"Love  your  child?  Alice,  my  darling!"  he  cried, 
and  his  voice  broke. 

She  raised  her  hand  to  his  cheek  with  a  little 
caressing  gesture,  which  had  always  been  character- 
istic of  her,  and  as  he  opened  his  eyes  upon  her,  her 
beauty  shone,  he  thought,  with  a  light  that  blinded 
him. 

"I  hope  it  will  be  a  little  girl  with  blue  eyes  and 
fair  hair  like  mamma's,"  she  resumed  softly.  "It 
will  be  better  than  playing  with  dolls,  won't  it? 
I  always  loved  dolls,  you  know.  Do  you  remember 
the  big  wax  doll  you  gave  me  when  I  was  six  years 
old,  and  how  her  voice  got  out  of  order  and  she  used 
to  crow  instead  of  talking?  Well,  I  kept  her  for  years 
and  years,  and  even  after  I  was  a  big  girl,  and  wore 
long  dresses,  and  did  up  my  hair,  I  used  to  take  her 
out  sometimes  and  put  on  her  clothes.  Only  I  was 
ashamed  of  it  and  used  to  lock  the  door  so  no  one 
could  see  me.  But  this  little  girl  will  be  real,  you 
know,  and  that 's  ever  so  much  more  fun,  is  n't  it? 
And  you  shall  help  teach  her  to  walk,  and  to  ride 
when  she  's  big  enough ;  and  I  '11  dress  her  in  the 
loveliest  dresses,  with  French  embroidered  ruffles,  and 
a  little  blue  bonnet  with  bunches  of  feathers,  like 
one  in  Paris.  Only  she  can't  wear  that  until  she  's 
five  years  old,  can  she?" 

"And  now  you  will  have  something  to  think  of, 
Alice,  you  will  be  bored  no  longer? " 


THE   HOUSE   OF   DREAMS  441 

"I  shall  enjoy  buying  the  little  things  so  much, 
but  it  's  too  soon  yet  to  plan  about  them.  Papa, 
do  you  think  Geoffrey  will  fuss  about  money  when 
he  hears  this?" 

"I  hope  not,  dear,  but  you  must  be  careful.  The 
baby  won't  need  to  be  extravagant,  just  at  first." 

"But  she  must  have  pretty  clothes,  of  course, 
papa.  It  would  n't  be  kind  to  the  little  thing  to  make 
her  look  ugly,  would  it? " 

"Are  simple  things  always  ugly?" 

"Oh,  but  they  cost  just  as  much  if  they  're  fine 
— and  I  had  beautiful  clothes  when  I  came.  Mamma 
has  told  me  about  them." 

She  ran  on  breathlessly,  radiant  with  the  promise 
of  motherhood,  dwelling  in  fancy  upon  the  small 
blond  ideal  her  imagination  had  conjured  into  life. 

It  was  dark  when  they  returned  to  town,  and 
when  Daniel  entered  his  door,  after  leaving  Alice  in 
Henry  Street,  he  found  that  the  lamps  were  already 
lit  in  the  library.  As  he  passed  up  the  staircase,  he 
glanced  into  the  room,  and  saw  that  Lydia  and  Dick 
were  sitting  together  before  the  fire,  the  boy  resting 
his  head  on  her  knees,  while  her  fragile  hand  played 
caressingly  with  his  hair.  They  did  not  look  up 
at  his  footsteps,  and  his  heart  was  so  warm  with 
happiness  that  even  the  picture  of  mother  and  son 
in  the  firelit  room  appeared  dim  beside  it. 

When  he  opened  his  door  he  found  a  bright  fire  in 
his  grate,  and  throwing  off  his  coat,  he  sat  down 
in  an  easy  chair  with  his  eyes  on  the  glowing  coals. 
The  beneficent  vision  that  he  had  brought  home  with 


442  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

him  was  reflected  now  in  the  red  heart  of  the  fire, 
and  while  he  gazed  on  it,  he  told  himself  that  the  years 
of  his  loneliness,  and  his  inner  impoverishment,  were 
ended  forever.  The  path  of  age  showed  to  him  no 
longer  as  hard  and  destitute,  but  as  a  peaceful  road 
along  which  he  might  travel  hopefully  with  young  feet 
to  keep  him  company.  With  a  longing,  which  no 
excess  of  the  imagination  could  exhaust,  he  saw 
Alice's  child  as  she  had  seen  it  in  her  maternal  rap- 
ture— as  something  immortally  young  and  fair  and 
innocent.  He  thought  of  the  moment  so  long  ago, 
when  they  had  first  placed  Alice  in  his  arms,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  this  unborn  child  was  only  a 
renewal  of  the  one  he  had  held  that  day — that  he 
would  reach  out  his  arms  to  it  with  that  same  half 
human,  half  mystic  passion.  Even  to-day  he  could 
almost  feel  the  soft  pressure  of  her  little  body,  and 
he  hardly  knew  whether  it  was  the  body  of  Alice 
or  of  her  child.  Then  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  reality  faded  from  his  consciousness  and 
the  dream  began,  for  while  he  sat  there  he  heard 
the  patter  of  the  little  feet  across  his  floor,  and  felt 
the  little  hands  creep  softly  over  his  lips  and  brow. 
Oh,  the  little  hands  that  would  bring  healing  and 
love  in  their  touch! 

And  he  understood  as  he  looked  forward  now 
into  the  dreaded  future,  that  the  age  to  which  he 
was  travelling  was  only  an  immortal  youth. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   ULTIMATE    CHOICE 

ON  CHRISTMAS  EVE  a  heavy  snowstorm  set  in,  and 
as  there  was  but  little  work  in  the  office  that  day, 
he  took  a  long  walk  into  the  country  before  going  home 
to  luncheon.  By  the  time  he  came  back  to  town 
the  ground  was  already  covered  with  snow,  which 
was  blown  by  a  high  wind  into  deep  driits  against 
the  houses.  Through  the  thick,  whirling  flakes  the 
poplars  stood  out  like  white  ghosts  of  trees,  each 
branch  outlined  in  a  delicate  tracery,  and  where  the 
skeletons  of  last  spring's  flowers  still  clung  to  the 
boughs,  the  tiny  cups  were  crowned  with  clusters  of 
frozen  blossoms. 

As  he  passed  Richard's  house,  the  sight  of  his 
aunt's  fair  head  at  the  window  arrested  his  steps, 
and  going  inside,  he  found  her  filling  yarn  stockings 
for  twenty  poor  children,  to  whose  homes  she  went 
every  Christmas  Eve.  The  toys  and  the  bright 
tarleton  bags  of  candy  scattered  about  the  room  gave 
it  an  air  that  was  almost  festive ;  and  for  a  few  min- 
utes he  stayed  with  her,  watching  the  glow  of  pleasure 
in  her  small,  pale  face,  while  he  helped  stuff  the 
toes  of  the  yarn  stockings  with  oranges  and  nuts. 
As  he  stood  there,  surrounded  by  the  little  gifts,  he 
felt,  for  the  first  time  since  his  childhood,  the  full 

443 


444  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

significance  of  Christmas — of  its  cheer,  its  mirth  and 
its  solemnity. 

"I  am  to  have  a  tree  at  twelve  o'clock  to-morrow. 
Will  you  come?"  she  asked  wistfully,  and  he  pro- 
mised, with  a  smile,  before  he  left  her  and  went  out 
again  into  the  storm. 

In  the  street  a  crowd  of  boys  were  snowballing 
one  another,  and  as  he  passed  a  ball  struck  himr 
knocking  his  hat  into  a  drift.  Turning  in  pretended 
fury,  he  plunged  into  the  thick  of  the  battle,  and 
when  he  retreated  some  minutes  afterward,  he  was 
powdered  from  head  to  foot  with  dry,  feathery 
flakes.  When  he  reached  home,  he  discovered, 
with  dismay,  that  he  left  patches  of  white  on  the 
carpet  from  the  door  to  the  upper  landing.  After 
he  had  entered  his  room  he  shook  the  snow  from  his 
clothes,  and  then  looking  at  his  watch,  saw  to  his 
surprise,  that  luncheon  must  have  been  over  for  at 
least  an  hour.  In  a  little  while,  he  told  himself, 
he  would  go  downstairs  and  demand  something  to 
eat  from  the  old  butler ;  but  the  hearth  was  so  bright 
and  warm  that  after  sinking  into  his  accustomed 
chair,  he  found  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
make  the  effort  to  go  out.  In  a  moment  a  delicious 
drowsiness  crept  over  him,  and  he  fell  presently 
asleep,  while  the  cigar  he  had  lighted  burned  slowly 
out  in  his  hand. 

The  sound  of  the  opening  and  closing  door  brought 
him  suddenly  awake  with  a  throb  of  pain.  The 
gray  light  from  the  windows,  beyond  which  the  snow 
fell  heavily,  was  obscured  by  the  figure  of  Lydia,, 


THE   ULTIMATE    CHOICE  445; 

who  seemed  to  spring  upon  him  out  of  some  dim 
mist  of  sleep.  At  first  he  saw  only  her  pale  face  and 
white  outstretched  hands;  then  as  she  came  rapidly 
forward  and  dropped  on  her  knees  in  the  firelight,  he 
saw  that  her  face  was  convulsed  with  weeping  and 
her  eyes  red  and  swollen.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  it  occurred  to  him  with  a  curious  quickness  of  per- 
ception, he  looked  upon  the  naked  soul  of  the  woman, 
with  her  last  rag  of  conventionality  stripped  from 
her.  In  the  shock  of  the  surprise,  he  half  rose  to  his 
feet,  and  then  sank  back  helplessly,  putting  out 
his  hand  as  if  he  would  push  her  away  from  him. 

"Lydia,"  he  said,  "don't  keep  me  waiting.  Tell 
me  at  once." 

She  tried  to  speak,  and  he  heard  her  voice  strangle 
like  a  live  thing  in  her  throat. 

"Is  Alice  dead?"  he  asked  quietly,  "or  is  Dick?" 

At  this  she  appeared  to  regain  control  of  herself 
and  he  watched  the  mask  of  her  impenetrable 
reserve  close  over  her  features.  "It  is  not  that — - 
nobody  is  dead — it  is  worse,"  she  answered  in  a 
subdued  and  lifeless  voice. 

"Worse?"  The  word  stunned  him,  and  he  stared 
at  her  blankly,  like  a  person  whose  mind  has  suddenly 
given  way. 

"Alice  is  in  my  room,"  she  went  on,  when  he  had 
paused,  "I  left  her  with  Uncle  Richard  while  I 
came  here  to  look  for  you.  We  did  not  hear  you  come 
in.  I  thought  you  were  still  out." 

Her  manner,  even  more  than  her  words,  impressed 
him  only  as  an  evasion  of  the  thing  in  her  mind; 


446  THE    ANCIENT    LAW 

and  seizing  her  hands  almost  roughly,  he  drew  her 
forward  until  he  could  look  closely  into  her  face. 

"For  God's  sake — -speak!"  he  commanded. 

But  with  his  grasp  all  animation  appeared  to  go 
out  of  her,  and  she  fell  across  his  knees  in  an  immov- 
able weight,  while  her  eyes  still  gazed  up  at  him. 

"  If  you  can't  tell  me  I  must  go  to  Uncle  Richard,'* 
he  added. 

As  he  attempted  to  rise  she  put  out  her  hands  to 
restrain  him,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  suspense,  he 
was  amazed  at  the  strength  there  was  in  a  creature 
so  slight  and  fragile. 

"Uncle  Richard  has  just  come  to  tell  us,"  she  said 
in  a  whisper.  "A  lawyer — a  detective — somebody. 
I  can't  remember  who  it  is — has  come  down  frorr 
New  York  to  see  Geoffrey  about  a  check  signed  ir 
his  name,  which  was  returned  to  the  bank  ther^. 
At  the  first  glance  it  was  seen  to  be — to  be  not  in  his 
writing.  When  it  was  sent  to  him,  after  the  banic 
had  declined  to  honour  it,  he  declared  it  to  be  a  for- 
gery and  sent  it  back  to  them  at  once.  It  is  now  in 
their  hands " 

"To  whom  was  it  drawn?"  he  asked  C3  quietly 
that  his  voice  sounded  in  his  own  ears  like  the  voice 
of  a  stranger. 

"To  Damon  &  Hanska,  furriers  in  Fifth  Avenue, 
and  it  was  sent  in  payment  for  a  sable  coat  which 
Alice  had  bought.  They  had  already  begun  a  suit, 
it  seems,  to  recover  the  money." 

As  she  finished  he  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  and 
stood  staring  at  the  snow  which  fell  heavily  beyond 


THE   ULTIMATE   CHOICE  44) 

the  window.  The  twisted  bough  of  a  poplar  tree  just 
outside  was  rocking  back  and  forth  with  a  creaking 
noise,  and  presently,  as  his  ears  grew  accustomed  to> 
the  silence  in  the  room,  he  heard  the  loud  monoto- 
nous ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  mantel,  which 
seemed  to  grow  more  distinct  with  each  minute  that 
the  hands  travelled.  Lydia  had  slipped  from  his 
grasp  as  he  rose,  and  lay  now  with  her  face  buried 
in  the  cushions  of  the  chair.  It  was  a  terrible  thing  fot 
Lydia, he  thought  suddenly,  as  he  looked  down  on  her. 

"And  Geoffrey  Heath?"  he  asked,  repeating  the 
question  in  a  raised  voice  when  she  did  not  answer. 

"Oh,  what  can  we  expect  of  him?  What  can 
we  expect?"  she  demanded,  with  a  shudder.  "Alice 
is  sure  that  he  hates  her,  that  he  would  seize  any 
excuse  to  divorce  her,  to  outrage  her  publicly.  He 
will  do  nothing — nothing — nothing,"  she  said,  rising 
to  her  feet,  "  he  has  returned  the  check  to  the  bank, 
and  denied  openly  all  knowledge  of  it.  After  some 
violent  words  with  Alice  in  the  lawyer's  presence, 
he  declared  to  them  both  that  he  did  not  care  in  the 
least  what  steps  were  taken — that  he  had  washed 
his  hands  of  her  and  of  the  whole  affair.  She  is 
half  insane  with  terror  of  a  prosecution,  and  cas 
hardly  speak  coherently.  Oh,  I  wonder  why  one 
ever  has  children?"  she  exclaimed  in  anguish. 

With  her  last  words  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
barrier  which  had  separated  him  from  Lydia  had 
crumbled  suddenly  to  ruins  between  them.  The 
space  which  love  could  not  bridge  was  spanned  by 
pity ;  and  crossing  to  where  she  stood,  he  put  his  arms 


448  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

about  her,  while  she  bowed  her  head  on  his  breast 
and  wept. 

"Poor  girl!  poor  girl!"  he  said  softly,  and  then 
putting  her  from  him,  he  went  out  of  the  room  and 
closed  the  door  gently  upon  her  grief. 

From  across  the  hall  the  sound  of  smothered  sobs 
came  to  him,  and  entering  Lydia's  room,  he  saw 
Alice  clinging  hysterically  to  Richard's  arm.  As  she 
looked  round  at  his  footsteps,  her  face  showed  so 
old  and  haggard  between  the  splendid  masses  of  her 
hair,  that  he  could  hardly  believe  for  a  minute  that 
this  half  distraught  creature  was  really  his  daughter. 
For  an  instant  he  was  held  dumb  by  the  horror  of 
it ;  then  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  cry  with  which 
Alice  threw  herself  into  his  arms.  Once  before  she 
had  rushed  to  his  breast  with  the  same  word  on  her 
lips,  he  remembered. 

" O  papa,  you  will  help  me!  You  must  help  me! " 
she  crfed.  "Oh,  make  them  tell  you  all  so  that 
you  may  help  me!" 

"They  have  told  me — your  mother  has  told  me, 
Alice,"  he  answered,  seeking  in  vain  to  release  him- 
self from  the  frantic  grasp  of  her  arms. 

"Then  you  will  make  Geoffrey  understand,"  she 
returned,  almost  angrily.  "You  will  make  Geoffrey 
understand  that  it  was  not  my  fault — that  I  could  n't 
help  it." 

Richard  Ordway  turned  from  the  window,  through 
which  he  had  been  looking,  and  taking  her  fingers, 
which  were  closed  in  a  vice-like  pressure  about 
Daniel's  arm,  pried  them  forcibly  apart. 


THE    ULTIMATE   CHOICE  449 

"Look  at  me,  Alice,"  he  said  sternly,  "and  answer 
the  question  that  I  asked  you.  What  did  you  say 
to  Geoffrey  when  he  spoke  to  you  in  the  lawyer's 
presence  ?  Did  you  deny,  then,  that  you  had  signed 
the  check?  Don't  struggle  so,  I  must  hear  what  you 
told  them." 

But  she  only  writhed  in  his  hold,  straining  her 
arms  and  her  neck  in  the  direction  of  Daniel. 

"He  was  very  cruel,"  she  replied  at  last,  "they 
were  both  very  cruel.  I  don't  know  what  I  said, 
I  was  so  frightened.  Geoffrey  hurt  me  terribly 
— he  hurt  me  terribly,"  she  whimpered  like  a  childr 
and  as  she  turned  toward  Daniel,  he  saw  her  blood- 
less gum,  from  which  her  lower  lip  had  quivered  and 
dropped. 

"I  must  know  what  you  told  them,  Alice,"  re- 
peated the  old  man  in  an  unmoved  tone.  "I  can 
do  nothing  to  help  you,  if  you  will  not  speak  the 
truth."  Even  when  her  body  struggled  in  his  grasp, 
no  muscle  altered  in  the  stern  face  he  bent 
above  her. 

"Let me  go,"  she  pleaded  passionately,  "I  want 
to  go  to  papa!  I  want  papa!" 

At  her  cry  Daniel  made  a  single  step  forward,  and 
then  fell  back  because  the  situation  seemed  at  the 
moment  in  the  command  of  Richard.  Again  he  felt 
the  curious  respect,  the  confidence,  with  which  his 
uncle  inspired  him  in  critical  'moments. 

"I  shall  let  you  go  when  you  have  told  me  the 
truth,"  said  Richard  calmly. 

She   grew  instantly  quiet,    and   for  a  minute  she 


450  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

appeared  to  hang  a  dead  weight  on  his  arm.  Then 
her  voice  came  with  the  whimpering,  childlike  sound. 

"I  told  them  that  I  had  never  touched  it — that  I 
had  asked  papa  for  the  money,  and  he  had  given 
it  to  me,"  she  said. 

"I  thought  so,"  returned  Richard  grimly,  and 
he  released  his  hold  so  quickly  that  she  fell  in  a  limp 
heap  at  his  feet. 

' '  I  wanted  it  from  her  own  lips,  though  Mr.  Cum- 
mins had  already  told  me,"  he  added,  as  he  looked 
at  his  nephew. 

For  a  moment  Daniel  stood  there  in  silence,  with 
his  eyes  on  the  gold-topped  bottles  on  Lydia's  dress- 
ing table.  He  had  heard  Alice's  fall,  but  he  did  not 
stoop  to  lift  her;  he  had  heard  Richard's  words,  but 
he  did  not  reply  to  them.  In  one  instant  a  violent 
revulsion — a  furious  anger  against  Alice  swept  over 
him,  and  the  next  he  felt  suddenly,  as  in  his 
dream,  the  little  hands  pass  over  his  brow  and  lips. 

"She  is  right  about  it,  Uncle  Richard,"  he  said, 
"I  gave  her  the  check." 

At  the  words  Richard  turned  quickly  away, 
but  with  a  shriek  of  joy,  Alice  raised  herself  to 
her  knees,  and  looked  up  with  shining  eyes. 

"I  told  you  papa  would  know!  I  told  you  papa 
would  help  me!"  she  cried  triumphantly  to  the  old 
man. 

Without  looking  at  her,  Richard  turned  his  glance 
again  to  his  nephew's  face,  and  something  that  was 
almost  a  tremor  seemed  to  pass  through  his  voice. 

"Daniel.."  he  asked,  "what  is  the  use?" 


THE    ULTIMATE   CHOICE  451 

"She  has  told  you  the  truth/'  repeated  Daniel 
steadily,  "I  gave  her  the  check." 

"You  are  ready  to  swear  to  this?" 

"If  it  is  necessary,  I  am." 

Alice  had  dragged  herself  slowly  forward,  still 
on  her  knees,  but  as  she  came  nearer  him,  Daniel 
retreated  instinctively  step  by  step  until  he  had  put 
the  table  between  them. 

"  It  is  better  for  me  to  go  away,  I  suppose,  at  once?  " 
he  inquired  of  Richard. 

The  gesture  with  which  Richard  responded  was 
almost  impatient.  "If  you  are  determined — it  will 
be  necessary  for  a  time  at  least,"  he  replied.  "There  's 
no  doubt,  I  hope,  that  the  case  will  be  hushed  up, 
but  already  there  has  been  something  of  a  scandal. 
I  have  made  good  the  loss  to  the  bank,  but  Geoffrey 
has  been  very  difficult  to  bring  to  reason.  He  wanted 
a  divorce  and  he  wanted  revenge  in  a  vulgar  way 
upon  Alice." 

"  But  she  is  saf  enow?  "asked  Daniel,  and  the  coldness 
in  his  tone  came  as  a  surprise  to  him  when  he  spoke. 

"Yes,  she  is  safe,"  returned  Richard,  "and  you, 
also,  I  trust.  There  is  little  danger,  I  think,  under 
the  circumstances,  of  a  prosecution.  If  at  any  time," 
he  added,  with  a  shaking  voice,  "before  your  return 
you  should  wish  the  control  of  your  property,  I  will 
turn  it  over  to  you  at  once." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Daniel  quietly,  and  then  with 
an  embarrassed  movement,  he  held  out  his  hand.  "I 
shall  go,  I  think,  on  the  four  o'clock  train,"  he  con- 
tinued, "is  that  what  you  would  advise?" 


452  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

"It  is  better,  I  feel,  to  go  immediately.  I  have 
an  appointment  with  the  lawyer  for  the  bank  at  a 
quarter  of  five."  He  put  out  his  hand  again  for  his 
nephew's.  "Daniel,  you  are  a  good  man,"  he 
added,  as  he  turned  away. 

Not  until  a  moment  later,  when  he  was  in  the  hall, 
did  Ordway  remember  that  he  had  left  Alice  crouched 
on  the  floor,  and  coming  back  he  lifted  her  into  his 
arms.  "It  is  all  right,  Alice,  don't  cry,"  he  said,  as 
he  kissed  her.  Then  turning  from  her,  with  a  strange 
dullness  of  sensation,  he  crossed  the  hall  and  entered 
his  room,  where  he  found  Lydia  still  lying  with  her 
face  hidden  in  the  cushions  of  the  chair. 

At  his  step  she  looked  up  and  put  out  her  hand, 
with  an  imploring  gesture. 

"Daniel!"  she  called  softly,  "Daniel!" 

Before  replying  to  her  he  went  to  his  bureau  and 
hurriedly  packed  some  clothes  into  a  bag.  Then, 
with  the  satchel  still  in  his  hand,  he  came  over  and 
stopped  beside  her. 

"I  can't  wait  to  explain,  Lydia;  Uncle  Richard 
will  tell  you,"  he  said. 

"You  are  going  away?  Do  you  mean  you  are 
going  away?"  she  questioned. 

"To-morrow  you  will  understand,"  he  answered, 
"that  it  is  better  so." 

For  a  moment  uncertainty  clouded  her  face;  then 
she  raised  herself  and  leaned  toward  him. 

"But  Alice?     Does  Alice  go  with  you?"  she  asked. 

"No,  Alice  is  safe.     Go  to  her." 

"  You  will  come  back  again  ?     It  is  not  forever  ?  " 


THE    ULTIMATE   CHOICE  453 

He  shook  his  head  smiling.  "Perhaps,"  he  an- 
swered. 

She  still  gazed  steadily  up  at  him,  and  he  saw 
presently  a  look  come  into  her  face  like  the  look  with 
which  she  had  heard  of  the  blow  he  had  struck 
Geoffrey  Heath. 

"Daniel,  you  are  a  brave  man,"  she  said,  and 
sobbed  as  she  kissed  him. 

Following  him  to  the  threshold,  she  listened,  with 
her  face  pressed  against  the  lintel,  while  she  heard 
him  go  down  the  staircase  and  close  the  front  door 
softly  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  VII 
FLIGHT 

NOT  until  the  train  had  started  and  the  conductor 
had  asked  for  his  ticket,  did  Ordway  realize  that  he 
was  on  his  wap  to  Tappahannock.  At  the  discovery 
he  was  conscious  of  no  surprise — scarcely  of  any 
interest — it  seemed  to  matter  to  him  so  little  in 
which  direction  he  went.  A  curious  numbness  of 
sensation  had  paralysed  both  his  memory  and  his 
perceptions,  and  he  hardly  knew  whether  he  was 
glad  or  sorry,  warm  or  cold.  In  the  same  way  he 
wondered  why  he  felt  no  regret  at  leaving  Botetourt 
forever — no  clinging  tenderness  for  his  home,  for 
Lydia,  for  Alice.  If  his  children  had  been  strangers 
to  him  he  could  not  have  thought  of  his  parting  from 
them  with  a  greater  absence  of  feeling.  Was  it  pos- 
sible at  last  that  he  was  to  be  delivered  from  the  emo- 
tional intensity,  the  power  of  vicarious  suffering, 
which  had  made  him  one  of  the  world's  failures  ? 
He  recalled  indifferently  Alice's  convulsed  features, 
and  the  pathetic  quiver  of  her  lip,  which  had  drooped 
like  a  child's  that  is  hurt.  These  things  left  him 
utterly  unmoved  when  he  remembered  them,  and  he 
even  found  himself  asking  the  next  instant,  with  a 
vague  curiosity,  if  the  bald-headed  man  in  the  seat  in 
front  of  him  was  going  home  to  spend  Christmas  with 

454 


FLIGHT  455 

his  daughter  ?  "But  what  has  this  bald-headed 
man  to  do  with  Alice  or  with  me  ?"  he  demanded 
in  perplexity,  "and  why  is  it  that  I  can  think  of 
him  now  with  the  same  interest  with  which  I  think 
of  my  own  child  ?  I  am  going  away  forever  and  I 
shall  never  see  them  again,"  he  continued,  with 
emphasis,  as  if  to  convince  himself  of  some  fact 
which  he  had  but  half  understood.  "Yes,  I  shall 
never  see  them  again,  and  Alice  will  be  quite  happy 
without  me,  and  Alice's  child  will  grow  up  prob- 
ably without  hearing  my  name.  Yet  I  did  it  for 
Alice.  No,  I  did  not  do  it  for  Alice,  or  for  Alice's 
child,"  he  corrected  quickly,  with  a  piercing  flash 
of  insight.  "It  was  for  something  larger,  stronger 
— something  as  inevitable  as  the  law.  I  could  not 
help  it,  it  was  for  myself."  he  added,  after,  a  minute. 
And  it  seemed  to  him  that  with  this  inward  revelation 
the  outer  covering  of  things  was  stripped  suddenly 
from  before  his  eyes.  As  beneath  his  sacrifice  he  recog- 
nised the  inexorable  law,  so  beneath  Alice's  beauty 
he  beheld  the  skeleton  which  her  radiant  flesh  clothed 
with  life,  and  beneath  Lydia's  mask  of  convention- 
ality her  little  naked  soul,  too  delicate  and  shivering 
to  stand  alone.  It  was  as  if  all  pretence,  all  deceit, 
all  illusions,  had  shrivelled  now  in  the  hard  dry, 
atmosphere  through  which  he  looked.  "Yes,  I  am 
indifferent  to  them  all  and  to  everything,"  he  con- 
cluded ;  "  Lydia,  and  Dick  and  even  Alice  are  no  closer 
to  me  than  is  the  bald-headed  man  on  the  front  seat. 
Nobody  is  closer  to  another  when  it  comes  to  that, 
for  each  one  of  us  is  alone  in  an  illimitable  space." 


456  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

The  swinging  lights  of  the  train  were  reflected  in 
the  falling  snow  outside,  like  orbed  blue  flames 
against  a  curtain  of  white.  Through  the  crack  under 
the  window  a  little  cold  draught  entered,  blowing  the 
cinders  from  the  sill  into  his  face.  It  was  the  com- 
mon day  coach  of  a  local  train,  and  the  passengers 
were,  for  the  most  part,  young  men  or  young  women 
clerks,  who  were  hastening  back  to  their  country 
homes  for  Christmas.  Once  when  they  reached  a 
station  several  girls  got  off,  with  their  arms  filled 
with  packages,  and  pushed  their  way  through  the 
heavy  drifts  to  a  sleigh  waiting  under  the  dim  oil 
lamp  outside.  For  a  minute  he  followed  them  idly 
in  his  imagination,  seeing  the  merry  party  ploughing 
over  the  old  country  roads  to  the  warm  farm  house, 
where  a  bright  log  fire  and  a  Christmas  tree  were 
prepared  for  them.  The  window  panes  were  frosted 
over  now,  and  when  the  train  started  on  its  slow 
journey  he  could  see  only  the  orbed  blue  flames 
dancing  in  the  night  against  the  whirling  snowflakes. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  they  pulled  into  Tappa- 
hannock  and  when  he  came  out  upon  the  plat- 
form he  found  that  the  storm  had  ceased,  though 
the  ground  lay  white  and  hard  beneath  the  scat- 
tered street  lamps.  Straight  ahead  of  him,  as  he 
walked  up  the  long  hill  from  the  station,  he  heard 
the  ring  of  other  footsteps  on  the  frozen  snow.  The 
lights  were  still  burning  in  the  little  shops,  and  through 
the  uncurtained  windows  he  could  see  the  variegated 
display  of  Christmas  decorations.  Here  and  there 
a  woman,  with  her  head  wrapped  in  a  shawl,  was 


FLIGHT  457 

peering  eagerly  at  a  collection  of  toys  or  a  wreath 
of  evergreens,  but,  for  the  rest,  the  shops  appeared 
singularly  empty  even  for  so  late  an  hour  on  Christ- 
mas Eve.  In  the  absorption  of  his  thoughts,  he 
scarcely  noticed  this,  and  he  was  conscious  of  no 
particular  surprise  when,  as  he  reached  the  familiar 
warehouse,  he  saw  Baxter's  enormous  figure  loom 
darkly  under  the  flickering  light  above  the  sidewalk. 
Behind  him  the  vacant  building  yawned  like  a 
sepulchral  cavern,  the  dim  archway  hung  with  a 
glistening  fringe  of  icicles. 

"Is  that  you,  Baxter?"  he  asked,  and  stretched 
out  his  hand  with  a  mechanical  movement. 

"Why,  bless  my  soul,  Smith!"  exclaimed  Baxter, 
"who  'd  ever  have  believed  it!" 

"I  've  just  got  off  the  train,"  returned  Ordway, 
feeling  vaguely  that  some  explanation  of  his  presence 
was  needed,  "and  I  'm  trying  to  find  a  place  where 
I  can  keep  warm  until  I  take  the  one  for  the  West  at 
midnight.  It  did  n't  occur  to  me  that  you  would  be 
in  your  office.  I  was  going  to  Mrs.  Buzzy's." 

"You  'd  better  corre  along  with  me,  for  I  don't 
believe  you  '11  find  a  living  soul  at  Mag  Buzzy's — 
not  even  a  kid,"  replied  Baxter,  "her  husband  is  one 
of  Jasper  Trend's  overseers,  you  know,  and  they  Ve 
most  likely  down  at  the  cotton  mills." 

"At  the  cotton  mills?  Why,  what's  the  matter 
there?" 

"You  have  n't  heard  then?  I  thought  it  was  in  all 
the  papers.  There  's  been  a  big  strike  on  for  a  week 
— Jasper  lowered  wages  the  first  of  the  month — and 


458  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

every  operative  has  turned  out  and  demanded  more 
pay  and  shorter  hours.  The  old  man  's  hoppin',  of 
course,  and  the  funny  part  is,  Smith,  that  he  lays 
every  bit  of  the  trouble  at  your  door.  He  says 
that  you  started  it  all  by  raisin'  the  ideas  of  the 
operatives." 

"But  it's  a  pretty  serious  business  for  them, 
Baxter.  How  are  they  going  to  live  through  this 
weather?" 

"They  ain't  livin',  they're  starvin',  though  I 
believe  the  union  is  comin'  to  their  help  sooner  or 
later.  But  what 's  that  in  such  a  blood- curdlin' 
spell  as  this?" 

A  sudden  noise,  like  that  of  a  great  shout,  rising 
and  falling  in  the  bitter  air,  came  to  them  from  be- 
low the  slope  of  the  hill,  and  catching  Ordway's  arm, 
Baxter  drew  him  closer  under  the  street  lamp. 

"They  're  hootin'  at  the  guards  Trend  has  put 
around  the  mills,"  he  said,  while  his  words  floated 
like  vapour  out  of  his  mouth  into  the  cold,  "he  's  got 
policemen  stalkin'  up  an'  down  before  his  house,  too." 

"  You  mean  he  actually  fears  violence  ? " 

"Oh,  well,  when  trouble  is  once  started,  you  know, 
it  is  apt  to  go  at  a  gallop.  A  policeman  got  his 
skull  knocked  in  yesterday,  and  one  of  the  strikers 
had  his  leg  broken  this  afternoon.  Somebody  has 
been  stonin'  Jasper's  windows  in  the  back,  but  they 
can't  tell  whether  it 's  a  striker  or  a  scamp  of  a  boy. 
The  truth  is,  Smith,"  he  added,  "that  Jasper  ought 
to  have  sold  the  mills  when  he  had  an  offer  of  a  hun- 
dred thousand  six  months  ago.  But  he  would  n't 


FLIGHT  459 

do  it  because  he  said  he  made  more  than  the  interest 
on  that  five  times  over.  I  reckon  he  's  sorry  enough 
now  he  did  n't  catch  at  it." 

For  a  moment  Ordway  looked  in  silence  under 
the  hanging  icicles  into  the  cavernous  mouth  of  the 
warehouse,  while  he  listened  to  the  smothered 
sounds,  like  the  angry  growls  of  a  great  beast, 
which  came  toward  them  from  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Into  the  confusion  of  his  thoughts  there  broke  sud- 
denly the  meaning  of  Richard  Ordway's  parting 
words. 

"Baxter,"  he  said  quietly,  "111  give  Jasper 
Trend  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  for  his  mills  to- 
night." 

Baxter  let  go  the  lamp  post  against  which  he  was 
leaning,  and  fell  back  a  step,  rubbing  his  stiffened 
hands  on  his  big  shaggy  overcoat. 

"  You,  Smith  ?  Why,  what  in  thunder  do  you  want 
with  'em?  It 's  my  belief  that  they  will  be  afire 
before  midnight.  Do  you  hear  that  noise?  Well, 
there  ain't  men  enough  in  Tappahannock  to  put 
those  mills  out  when  they  are  once  caught." 

Ordway  turned  his  face  from  the  warehouse  to  his 
companion,  and  it  seemed  to  Baxter  that  his  eyes 
shone  like  blue  lights  out  of  the  darkness. 

"  But  they  won't  burn  after  they  're  mine,  Baxter," 
he  answered.  "I'll  buy  the  mills  and  111  settle 
this  strike  before  '  I  leave  Tappahannock  at  mid- 
night." 

"You  mean  you'll  go  away  even  after  you've 
bought  'em?" 


460  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

"I  mean  I  've  got  to  go — to  go  always  from  place 
to  place — but  I  '11  leave  you  here  in  my  stead." 
He  laughed  shortly,  but  there  was  no  merriment  in 
the  sound.  "I  '11  run  the  mills  on  the  cooperative 
plan,  Baxter,  and  I  11  leave  you  in  charge  of  them — 
you  and  Banks."  Then  he  caught  Baxter's  arm  with 
both  hands,  and  turned  his  body  forcibly  ;n  the 
direction  of  the  church  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  "  While 
we  are  talking  those  people  down  there  are  freezing," 
he  said. 

"An'  so  am  I,  if  you  don't  mind  my  mentionin' 
it,"  observed  Baxter  meekly. 

"Then  let 's  go  to  Trend's.  There  's  not  a  minute 
to  lose,  if  we  are  to  save  the  mills.  Are  you  coming, 
Baxter?" 

"Oh,  I'm  comin',"  replied  Baxter,  waddling  in 
his  shaggy  coat  like  a  great  black  bear,  "but  I  'd  like 
to  git  up  my  wind  first,"  he  added,  puffing  clouds 
of  steam  as  he  ascended  the  hill. 

"There's  no  time  for  that,"  returned  Ordway, 
sharply,  as  he  dragged  him  along. 

When  they  reached  Jasper  Trend's  gate,  a  police- 
man, who  strolled,  beating  his  hands  together,  on 
the  board  walk,  came  up  and  stopped  them  as  they 
were  about  to  enter.  Then  recognising  Baxter, 
he  apologised  and  moved  on.  A  moment  later  the 
sound  of  their  footsteps  on  the  porch  brought  the 
head  of  Banks  to  the  crack  of  the  door. 

"Who  are  you?  and  what  is  your  business?"  he 
demanded. 

"Banks!"  said  Ordway  in  a  whisper,  and  at  his 


FLIGHT  461 

voice  the  bar,  which  Banks  had  slipped  from  the 
door,  fell  with  a  loud  crash  from  his  hands. 

"Good  Lord,  it  's  really  you,  Smith!"  he  cried  in 
a  delirium  of  joy. 

"Harry,  be  careful  or  you'll  wake  the  baby," 
called  a  voice  softly  from  the  top  of  the  staircase. 

"  Darn  the  baby ! "  growled  Banks,  lowering  his  tone 
obediently.  "The  next  thing  she  '11  be  asking  me 
to  put  out  the  mills  because  the  light  wakes  the 
baby.  When  did  you  come,  Smith?  And  what 
on  God's  earth  are  you  doing  here  ? " 

"I  came  to  stop  the  strike,"  responded  Ordway, 
smiling.  "I  've  brought  an  offer  to  Mr.  Trend,  I 
must  speak  to  him  at  once." 

"  He  's  in  the  dining-room,  but  if  you  've  come  from 
the  strikers  it  's  no  use.  His  back  's  up." 

"Well,  it  ain't  from  the  strikers,"  interrupted 
Baxter,  pushing  his  way  in  the  direction  of  the  dining- 
room.  "  It  's  from  a  chap  we  won't  name,  but 
he  wants  to  buy  the  mills,  not  to  settle  the  strike  with 
Jasper." 

"Then  he  's  a  darn  fool,"  remarked  Jasper  Trend 
from  the  threshold,  "for  if  I  don't  get  the  ringleaders 
arrested  befo'  mornin'  thar  won't  be  a  brick  left 
standin'  in  the  buildings." 

"The  chap  I  mean  ain't  worryin'  about  that," 
said  Baxter,  "  provided  you '11  sign  the  agreement  in 
the  next  ten  minutes.  He  's  ready  to  give  you  a 
hundred  thousand  for  the  mills,  strikers  an'  all." 

"  Sign  the  agreement?  I  ain't  got  any  agreement," 
protested  Jasper,  suspecting  a  trap,  "and  how  do  I 


462  THE   ANCIENT    LAW 

know  that  the  -strike  ain't  over  befo'  you  're  making 
the  offer?" 

"Well,  if  you  11  just  step  over  to  the  window,  and 
stick  your  head  out,  you  won't  have  much  uncer- 
tainty about  that,  I  reckon,"  returned  Baxter. 

Crossing  to  the  window.  Ordway  threw  it  open, 
waiting  with  his  hand  on  the  sash,  while  the  threat- 
ening shouts  from  below  the  hill  floated  into  the 


room. 
« 


Papa,  the  baby  can't  sleep  for  the  noise  those 
men  make  down  at  the  mills,"  called  a  peremptory 
voice  from  the  landing  above. 

"I told  you  so!"  groaned  Banks,  closing  the 
window. 

"I  ain't  got  any  agreement,"  repeated  Jasper, 
in  helpless  irritation,  as  he  sank  back  into  his  chair. 

"Oh,  I  reckon  Smith  can  draw  up  one  for  you  as 
well  as  a  lawyer,"  said  Baxter,  while  Ordway,  sitting 
down  at  a  little  fancy  desk  of  Milly's  in  one  corner, 
wrote  out  the  agreement  of  sale  on  a  sheet  of 
scented  note  paper. 

When  he  held  the  pen  out  to  Jasper,  the  old  man 
looked  up  at  him  with  blinking  eyes.  "  Is  it  to  hold 
good  if  the  damned  thing  burns  befo'  mornin'?" 
he  asked. 

"  If  it  burns  before  morning — yes." 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  Jasper  wrote  his  name.  "  How 
do  I  know  if  I  'm  to  get  the  money?"  he  inquired 
the  next  instant,  moved  by  a  new  suspicion. 

"I  shall  telegraph  instructions  to  a  lawyer  in 
Botetourt,"  replied  Ordway,  as  he  handed  the  pen 


FLIGHT  463 

to  Baxter,  "and  you  will  receive  an  answer  by 
twelve  o'clock  to-morrow.  I  want  your  signature, 
also,  Banks,"  he  continued,  turning  to  the  young 
man.  "  I  've  made  two  copies,  you  see,  one  of  which 
I  shall  leave  with  Baxter." 

"Then  you're  going  away?"  inquired  Banks, 
gloomily. 

Ordway  nodded.  "I  am  leaving  on  the  midnight 
train,"  he  answered. 

"So  you  're  going  West?" 

"Yes,  I  'm  going  West,  and  I've  barely  time  to 
settle  things  at  the  mills  before  I  start.  God  bless 
you,  Banks.  Good-bye." 

Without  waiting  for  Baxter,  who  was  struggling 
into  his  overcoat  in  the  hall,  he  broke  away  from 
the  detaining  hold  of  Banks,  and  opening  the  door, 
ran  down  the  frozen  walk,  and  out  into  the  street, 
where  the  policeman  called  a  "Merry  Christmas!" 
to  him  as  he  hurried  by. 

When  he  gained  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  descended 
rapidly  toward  the  broad  level  beyond,  where  the 
brick  buildings  of  the  cotton  mills  stood  in  the  centre 
of  a  waste  of  snow,  the  shouts  grew  louder  and  more 
frequent,  and  the  black  mass  on  the  frozen  ground 
divided  itself  presently  into  individual  atoms.  A 
few  bonfires  had  started  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd,  and  by  their  fitful  light,  which  fell  in  jagged, 
reddish  shadows  on  the  snow,  he  could  see  the  hard 
faces  of  the  men,  the  sharpened  ones  of  the  women, 
and  the  pinched  ones  of  little  children,  all  sallow 
from  close  work  in  unhealthy  atmospheres  and  wan 


464  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

from  lack  of  nourishing  and  wholesome  food.  As 
he  approached  one  of  these  fires,  made  from  a  burn- 
ing barrel,  a  young  woman,  with  a  thin,  blue  face, 
and  a  baby  wrapped  in  a  ragged  shawl  on  her  breast, 
turned  and  spat  fiercely  in  his  direction.  "This 
ain't  no  place  for  swells!"  she  screamed,  and  began 
laughing  shrilly  in  a  half-crazed  voice. 

In  the  excitement  no  one  noticed  her,  and  her 
demented  shrieks  followed  him  while  he  made  his 
way  cautiously  along  the  outskirts  of  the  strikers, 
until  he  came  to  the  main  building,  before  which  a  few 
men  with  muskets  had  cleared  a  hollow  space.  They 
looked  cowed  and  sullen,  he  saw,  for  their  sympa- 
thies were  evidently  with  the  operatives,  and  he 
realised  that  the  first  organised  attack  would  force 
them  from  their  dangerous  position. 

Approaching  one  of  the  guards,  whom  he  remem- 
bered, Ordway  touched  him  upon  the  arm  and 
asked  to  be  permitted  to  mount  to  the  topmost  step. 
"  I  have  a  message  to  deliver  to  the  men,"  he  said. 

The  guard  looked  up  with  a  start  of  fear,  and  then, 
recognising  him,  exclaimed  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "My 
God,  boys,  it  's  'Ten  Commandment  Smith'  or  it  's 
Ws  ghost!" 

"Let  me  get  through  to  the  steps,"  said  Ordway, 
'"I  must  speak  to  them." 

"  Well,  you  may  speak  all  you  want  to,  but  I  doubt 
if  they  'd  listen  to  an  angel  from  heaven  if  he  were 
to  talk  to  them  about  Jasper  Trend.  They  are  pre- 
paring a  rush  on  the  doors  now,  and  when  they  make 
it  they  11  go  through." 


FLIGHT  46$ 

Passing  him  in  silence,  Ordway  mounted  the 
steps,  and  stood  with  his  back  against  the  doors  of 
the  main  building,  in  which,  when  he  had  last  entered, 
it,  the  great  looms  had  been  at  work.  Before  him 
the  dark  mass  heaved  back  and  forth,  and  farther 
away,  amid  the  bonfires  in  the  waste  of  frozen  snow, 
he  could  hear  the  shrill,  mocking  laughter  of  the 
half-crazed  woman. 

"We  won't  hear  any  talk,"  cried  a  spokesman 
in  the  front  ranks  of  the  crowd.  "It  's  too  late  to 
haggle  now.  We  11  have  nothin'  from  Jasper  Trend 
unless  he  gives  us  what  we  ask." 

"And  if  he  says  he  11  give  it  who  will  believe  him? " 
jeered  a  woman,  farther  back,  holding  a  crying  child 
above  her  head.  "He  killed  the  father  and  he  '& 
starvin*  the  children." 

"No — no,  well  have  no  damned  words.  Well 
burn  out  the  scabs!"  shouted  a  man,  lifting  a  torch 
he  had  just  lit  at  a  bonfire.  As  the  torch  rose  in  a 
splendid  blaze,  it  lighted  up  the  front  of  the  building, 
and  cast  a  yellow  flame  upon  Ordway 's  face. 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  Jasper  Trend!"  he 
called  out,  straightening  himself  to  his  full  height. 
"He  has  no  part  in  the  mills  from  to-night!  I  have 
bought  them  from  him!  " 

With  the  light  on  his  face,  he  stood  there  an  instant 
before  them,  while  the  shouts  changed  in  the  first 
shock  of  recognition  from  anger  to  surprise.  The 
minute  afterward  the  crowd  was  rocked  by  a  single 
gigantic  emotion,  and  it  hurled  itself  forward,  bear- 
ing down  the  guards  in  its  efforts  to  reach  the  steps. 


466  THE   ANCIENT  LAW 

As  it  swayed  back  and  forth  its  individual  members 
— men,  women  and  children — appeared  to  float 
like  straws  on  some  cosmic  undercurrent  of 
feeling. 

"From  to-night  the  mills  belong  to  me!"  he  cried 
in  a  voice  which  rang  over  the  frozen  ground  to  where 
the  insane  woman  was  laughing  beside  a  bonfire. 
"Your  grievances  after  to-night  are  not  against 
Jasper  Trend,  but  against  me.  You  shall  have 
fair  pay,  fair  hours  and  clean  rooms,  I  promise 
you "  • 

He  went  on  still,  but  his  words  were  drowned 
in  the  oncoming  rush  of  the  crowd,  which  rolled 
forward  like  great  waters,  surrounding  him,  over- 
whelming him,  sweeping  him  off  his  feet,  and  bearing 
him  out  again  upon  its  bosom.  The  cries  so  lately 
growls  of  anger  had  changed  suddenly,  and  above  all 
the  din  and  rush  he  heard  rising  always  the  name 
which  he  had  made  honoured  and  beloved  inTappa- 
hannock.  It  was  the  one  great  moment  of  his  life, 
he  knew,  when  on  the  tremendous  swell  of  feeling, 
he  was  borne  like  a  straw  up  the  hillside  and  back 
into  the  main  street  of  Tappahannock. 

An  hour  later,  bruised,  aching  and  half  stunned, 
he  entered  the  station  and  telegraphed  twice  to 
Richard  Ordway  before  he  went  out  upon  the  plat- 
form to  take  the  train.  He  had  left  his  instructions 
with  Baxter,  from  whom  he  had  just  parted,  and  now, 
as  he  walked  up  and  down  in  the  icy  darkness, 
broken  by  the  shivering  lights  of  the  station,  it  seemed 


FLIGHT  467 

to  him  that  he  was  like  a  man,  who  having  been 
condemned  to  death,  stands  looking  back  a  little 
wistfully  at  life  from  the  edge  of  the  grave.  He  had 
had  his  great  moment,  and  ahead  of  him  there  was 
nothing. 

A  freight  train  passed  with  a  grating  noise,  a  sta- 
tion hand,  holding  a  lantern  ran  hurriedly  along  the 
track,  a  whistle  blew,  and  then  again  there  was  still- 
ness. His  eyes  were  wearily  following  the  track, 
when  he  felt  a  touch  on  his  arm,  and  turning  quickly, 
saw  Banks,  in  a  fur-lined  overcoat,  looking  up  at  him 
with  an  embarrassed  air. 

"  Smith,"  he  said,  strangling  a  cough,  "I  've  seen 
Baxter,  and  neither  he  nor  I  like  your  going  West 
this  way  all  by  yourself  and  half  sick.  If  you  don't 
mind,  I  Ve  arranged  to  take  a  little  holiday  and  come 
along.  To  tell  the  truth,  it's  just  exactly  the  chance 
I  've  been  looking  for.  I  have  n't  been  away  from 
Milly  twenty-four  hours  since  I  married  her,  and  a 
change  does  anybody  good." 

"No,  you  can't  come,  Banks,  I  don't  want  you. 
I'd  rather  be  alone,"  replied  Ordway,  almost  in- 
dignantly o 

"But  you  ain't  well,"  insisted  Banks  stub- 
bornly. "We  don't  like  the  looks  of  you,  Baxter 
and  I." 

"Well,  you  can't  come,  that's  all,"  retorted  Ord- 
way, as  the  red  eyes  of  the  engine  pierced  the  dark- 
ness. "There,  go  home,  Banks,"  he  added,  as  he 
held  out  his  hand,  "I'm  much  obliged  to  you. 
You're  a  first-rate  chap.  Good-bye." 


468  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

"Then  good-bye/'  returned  Banks  hastily  turning 
away. 

A  minute  afterward,  as  Ordway  swung  himself 
on  the  train,  he  heard  the  bells  of  a  church,  ringing 
cheerfully  in  the  frosty  air,  and  remembered,  with 
a  start,  that  it  was  Christmas  morning 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  END  OF  THE  ROAD 

IN  THE  morning,  after  a  short  sleep  on  the  hard 
plush  seat,  he  awoke  with  a  shooting  pain  in  his  head. 
When  the  drowsiness  of  exhaustion  had  overcome 
him,  he  remembered,  he  had  been  idly  counting  the 
dazzling  electric  lights  of  a  town  through  which  they 
were  passing.  By  the  time  he  had  reached  "twenty- 
one"  he  had  dropped  off  into  unconsciousness, 
though  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  second  self  within 
him,  wholly  awake,  had  gone  on  through  the  night 
counting  without  pause,  "twenty-two,  twenty-three, 
twenty-four,  twenty-five — "  Still  in  his  brain  the 
numbers  went  on,  and  still  the  great  globular  lights 
flashed  past  his  eyes. 

Struggling  awake  in  the  gray  dawn,  he  lay  without 
changing  his  position,  until  the  mist  gave  place 
slowly  to  the  broad  daylight.  Then  he  found  that 
they  were  approaching  another  town,  which  appeared 
from  a  distant  view  to  resemble  a  single  gigantic 
factory,  composed  chiefly  of  a  wilderness  of  chim- 
neys. When  he  looked  at  his  watch,  he  saw  that 
it  was  eight  o'clock;  and  the  conductor  passing 
through  the  coach  at  the  instant,  informed  the 
passengers  generally  that  they  must  change  cars 
for  the  West.  The  name  of  the  town  Ordway  failed 

469 


470  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

to  catch,  but  it  made  so  little  difference  to  him  that 
he  followed  the  crowd  mechanically,  without  in- 
quiring where  it  would  lead  him.  The  pain  in  his 
head  had  extended  now  to  his  chest  and  shoulders, 
and  presently  it  passed  into  his  lower  limbs,  with  a 
racking  ache  that  seemed  to  take  from  him  the  con- 
trol of  his  muscles.  Yet  all  the  while  he  felt  a  curious 
drowsiness,  which  did  not  in  the  least  resemble  sleep, 
creeping  over  him  like  the  stealthy  effect  of  some 
powerful  drug.  After  he  had  breathed  the  fresh  air 
outside,  he  felt  it  to  be  impossible  that  he  should 
return  to  the  overheated  car,  and  pushing  his  way 
through  the  .crowded  station,  where  men  were  rushing 
to  the  luncheon  counter  in  one  corner,  he  started  along 
a  broad  street,  which  looked  as  if  it  led  to  an  open 
square  at  the  top  of  a  long  incline.  On  either  side 
there  were  rows  of  narrow  tenements,  occupied 
evidently  by  the  operatives  in  the  imposing  factories 
he  had  observed  from  the  train.  Here  and  there  a 
holly  wreath  suspended  from  a  cheap  lace  curtain, 
reminded  him  again  that  it  was  Christmas  morning, 
and  by  some  eccentricity  of  memory,  he  recalled 
vividly  a  Christmas  before  his  mother's  death, 
when  he  had  crept  on  his  bare  feet,  in  the  dawn, 
to  peep  into  the  bulging  stocking  before  her  fireplace. 
At  the  next  corner  a  small  eating  house  had  hung 
out  its  list  of  Christmas  dainties,  and  going  inside 
he  sat  down  at  one  of  the  small  deserted  tables  and 
asked  for  a  cup  of  coffee.  When  it  was  brought 
he  swallowed  it  in  the  hope  that  it  might  drive  away 
the  heaviness  in  his  head,  but  after  a  moment  of 


THE   END   OF  THE    ROAD  471 

relief  the  stupor  attacked  him  again  more  oppres- 
sively than  ever.  He  felt  that  even  the  growing 
agony  in  his  forehead  and  shoulders  could  not  keep 
him  awake  if  he  could  only  find  a  spot  in  which  to  lie 
down  and  rest. 

After  he  came  out  into  the  street  again  he  felt 
stronger  and  better,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  his 
headache  was  due  probably  to  the  fact  that  he  had 
eaten  nothing  since  breakfast  the  day  before.  He 
remembered  now  that  he  had  missed  his  luncheon 
because  of  his  long  walk  into  the  country,  and  the 
recollection  of  this  trivial  incident  seemed  to  make 
plain  all  the  subsequent  events.  Everything  that 
had  been  so  confused  a  moment  ago  stood  out  quite 
clearly  now.  His  emotions,  which  had  been  benumbed 
when  he  left  Botetourt,  revived  immediately  in  the 
awakening  of  his  memory;  and  he  was  seized  with  a 
terrible  longing  to  hold  Alice  in  his  arms  and  to  say 
to  her  that  he  forgave  her  and  loved  her  still.  It 
seemed  to  him  impossible  that  he  should  have  come 
away  after  a  single  indifferent  kiss,  without  glancing 
back — and  her  face  rose  before  him,  not  convulsed 
and  haggard  as  he  had  last  seen  it,  but  glowing  and 
transfigured,  with  her  sparkling  blue  eyes  and  her 
lips  that  were  too  red  arid  too  full  for  beauty.  Then, 
even  while  he  looked  at  her  with  love,  the  old  numb- 
ness crept  back,  and  his  feeling  for  her  died  utterly 
away.  "No,  I  have  ceased  to  care,"  he  thought 
indifferently.  "It  does  not  matter  to  me  whether 
I  see  her  again  or  not.  I  must  eat  and  lie  down, 
nothing  else  is  of  consequence." 


472  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

He  had  reached  the  open  space  at  the  end  of  the 
long  graded  hill,  and  as  he  stopped  to  look  about  him 
he  saw  that  a  small  hotel,  frequented  probably  by 
travelling  salesmen,  stood  directly  across  the  square, 
which  was  now  deep  in  snow.  Following  the  pavement 
to  the  open  door  of  the  lobby,  he  went  inside  and  asked 
for  a  room,  after  which  he  passed  into  the  restaurant 
and  drank  a  second  cup  of  coffee.  Then  turning 
away  from  his  untasted  food,  he  went  upstairs  to 
the  large, bare  apartment,  with  a  broken  window  pane, 
which  they  had  assigned  him,  and  throwing  himself 
upon  the  unmade  bed,  fell  heavily  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  the  pain  was  easier,  and  feeling 
oppressed  by  the  chill  vacancy  of  the  room,  he  went 
downstairs  and  out  into  the  open  square.  Though 
it  was  a  dull  gray  afternoon,  the  square  was  filled 
with  children,  dragging  bright  new  sleds  over  the  snow. 
One  of  them,  a  little  brown-haired  girl,  was  trundling 
her  Christmas  doll  and  as  she  passed  him,  she  turned 
and  smiled  into  his  face  with  a  joyful  look.  Some- 
thing in  her  smile  was  vaguely  familiar  to  him,  and 
he  remembered,  after  a  minute,  that  Emily  had 
looked  at  him  like  that  on  the  morning  when  he  had 
met  her  for  the  first  time  riding  her  old  white  horse 
up  the  hill  in  Tappahannock.  "Yes,  it  was  that 
look  that  made  me  love  her,"  he  thought  dispas- 
sionately, as  if  he  were  reviewing  some  dimly  remem- 
bered event  in  a  former  life,  "and  it  is  because  I 
loved  her  that  I  was  able  to  do  these  things.  If  I 
had  not  loved  her,  I  should  not  have  saved  Milly 
Trend,  nor  gone  back  to  Botetourt,  nor  sacrificed 


THE    END   OF   THE    ROAD  473 

myself  for  Alice.  Yes,  all  these  have  come  from 
that,"  he  added,  "and  will  go  back,  I  suppose, 
to  that  in  the  end."  The  little  girl  ran  by  again,  still 
trundling  her  doll,  and  again  he  saw  Emily  in  her 
red  cape  on  the  old  horse. 

For  several  hours  he  sat  there  in  the  frozen  square, 
hardly  feeling  the  cold  wind  that  blew  over  him.  But 
when  he  rose  presently  to  go  into  the  hotel,  he  found 
that  his  limbs  were  stiff,  and  the  burning  pain  had 
returned  with  violence  to  his  head  and  chest.  The 
snow  in  the  square  seemed  to  roll  toward  him  as  he 
walked,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  dragged 
himself  step  by  step  along  the  pavement  to  the 
entrance  of  the  hotel.  After  he  was  in  his  room 
again  he  threw  himself,  still  dressed,  upon  the  bed, 
and  fell  back  into  the  stupor  out  of  which  he  had 
come. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  after  an  hour,  he  was 
hardly  sure,  for  the  first  few  minutes,  whether  he 
was  awake  or  asleep.  The  large,  bare  room  in  which 
he  had  lost  consciousness  had  given  place,  when  he 
awoke,  to  his  prison  cell.  The  hard  daylight  came 
to  him  through  the  grated  windows,  and  from  a  nail 
in  the  wall  he  saw  his  gray  prison  coat,  with  the 
red  bars,  won  for  good  behaviour,  upon  the  sleeve. 
Then  while  he  looked  at  it,  the  red  bars  changed 
quickly  to  the  double  stripes  of  a  second  term,  and 
the  double  stripes  became  three,  and  the  three 
became  four,  until  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  striped 
from  head  to  foot  so  closely  that  he  knew  that  he  must 
have  gone  on  serving  term  after  term  since  the  be- 


474  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

ginning  of  the  world.  "No,  no,  that  is  not  mine.  I 
am  wearing  the  red  bars!"  he  cried  out,  and  came 
back  to  himself  with  a  convulsive  shudder. 

As  he  looked  about  him  the  hallucination  van- 
ished, and  he  felt  that  he  had  come  out  of  an  eternity 
of  unconsciousness  into  which  he  should  presently 
sink  back  again.  The  day  before  appeared  to  belong 
to  some  other  life  that  he  had  lived  while  he  was  still 
young,  yet  when  he  opened  his  eyes  the  same  gray 
light  filled  the  windows,  the  same  draught  blew 
through  the  broken  pane,  the  same  vague  shadows 
crawled  back  and  forth  on  the  ceiling.  The  head- 
ache was  gone  now,  but  the  room  had  grown  very 
cold,  and  from  time  to  time,  when  he  coughed,  long 
shivers  ran  through  his  limbs  and  his  teeth  chattered. 
He  had  thrown  his  overcoat  across  his  chest  as  a 
coverlet,  but  the  cold  from  which  he  suffered  was 
an  inward  chill,  which  was  scarcely  increased  by  the 
wind  that  blew  through  the  broken  pane.  There 
was  no  confusion  in  his  mind  now,  but  a  wonderful 
lucidity,  in  which  he  saw*  clearly  all  that  had 
happened  to  him  last  night  in  Tappahannock,  ' '  Yes, 
that  was  my  good  moment,"  he  said  "and  after  such 
a  moment  there  is  nothing,  but  death.  If  I  can 
only  die  everything  will  be  made  entirely  right  and 
simple."  As  he  uttered  the  words  the  weakness  of 
self  pity  swept  over  him,  and  with  a  sudden  sense 
of  spiritual  detachment,  he  was  aware  of  a  feeling 
of  sympathy  for  that  other  "I,"  who  seemed  so 
closely  related  to  him,  and  yet  outside  of  him- 
self. The  real  "I"  was  somewhere  above  amid  the 


THE  END   OF   THE    ROAD  475 

crawling  shadows  on  the  ceiling,  but  the  other — 
the  false  one — lay  on  the  bed  under  the  overcoat ;  and 
he  saw,  when  he  looked  down  that,  though  he  himself 
was  young,  the  other  "I"  was  old  and  haggard  and 
unshaven.  "So  there  are  two  of  us,  after  all,"  he 
thought,  "poor  fellows,  poor  fellows." 

But  the  minute  afterward  the  perception  of  his 
dual  nature  faded  as  rapidly  as  the  hallucination 
of  his  prison  cell.  In  its  place  there  appeared  the 
little  girl,  who  had  passed  him,  trundling  her  Christ- 
mas doll,  in  the  square  below.  "I  have  seen  her 
before — she  is  vaguely  familiar,"  he  thought,  troubled 
because  he  could  not  recall  the  resemblance.  From 
this  he  passed  to  the  memory  of  Alice  when  she  was 
still  a  child,  and  she  came  back  to  him,  fresh  and 
vivid,  as  on  the  day  when  she  had  run  out  to  beg 
him  to  come  in  to  listen  to  her  music.  The  broken 
scales  ran  in  his  head  again,  but  there  was  no  love 
in  his  heart. 

His  gaze  dropped  from  the  ceiling  and  turned  to- 
ward the  door,  for  in  the  midst  of  his  visions,  he  had 
seen  it  open  softly  and  Banks  come  into  the  room  on 
tiptoe  and  stop  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  regarding  him 
with  his  embarrassed  and  silly  look  "What  in  the 
devil,  am  I  dreaming  about  Banks  for?"  he  demanded 
aloud,  with  an  impatient  movement  of  his  feet,  as 
if  he  meant  to  kick  the  obtruding  dream  away  from 
his  bed. 

At  the  kick  the  dream  stopped  rolling  its  promi- 
nent pale  eyes  and  spoke.  "I  hope  you  ain't  sick, 
Smith,"  it  said,  and  with  the  first  words  he  knew 


476  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

that  it  was  Banks  in  the  familiar  flesh  and  not  the 
disembodied  spirit. 

"No  I  'm  not  sick,  but  what  are  you  doing  here?" 
he  asked. 

"Enjoying  myself  "  replied  Banks  gloomily. 

"Well,  I  wish  you'd  chosen  to  enjoy  yourself 
somewhere  else." 

"I  couldn't.  If  you  don't  mind  I  'd  like  to  stufi 
the  curtain  into  that  window  pane." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind.     When  did  you  get  here?" 

"I  came  on  the  train  with  you." 

"On  the  train  with  me?  Where  did  you  get  on? 
I  did  n't  see  you." 

"You  didn't  look,"  replied  Banks,  from  the 
window,  where  he  was  stuffing  the  red  velveteen 
curtain  into  the  broken  pane.  "I  was  in  the  last 
seat  in  the  rear  coach." 

"So  you  followed  me,"  said  Or  d  way  indignantly. 
"  I  told  you  not  to.  Why  did  you  do  it  ? " 

Banks  came  back  and  stood  again  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  looking  at  him  with  his  sincere  and  kindly 
smile. 

"Well,  the  truth  is,  I  wanted  an  outing,"  he  an- 
swered, "it  's  a  good  baby  as  babies  go,  but  I  get 
dog-tired  of  playing  nurse." 

"You  might  have  gone  somewhere  else.  There 
are  plenty  of  places." 

"I  couldn't  think  of  'em,  and,  besides,  this  seems 
a  nice  town.  The're  a  spanking  fine  lot  of  fac- 
tories. But  I  hope  you  ain't  sick  Smith?  What 
are  you  doing  in  bed?' ' 


THE   END   OF  THE    ROAD  477 

"Oh,  I've  given  up,"  replied  Ordway  gruffly, 
11  Every  man  has  a  right  to  give  up  some  time,  has  n't 
he?" 

"I  don't  know  about  every  man,"  returned  Banks, 
stolidly,  "but  you  have  n't,  Smith." 

"Well,  I've  done  it  anyway,"  retorted  Ordway, 
and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

As  he  lay  there  with  closed  eyes,  he  had  an  obscure 
impression  that  Banks — Banks,  the  simple;  Banks, 
the  impossible — was  in  some  way  operating  the  forces 
of  destiny.  First  he  heard  the  bell  ring,  then  the 
door  open  and  close,  and  a  little  later,  the  bleak 
room  was  suffused  with  a  warm  rosy  light  in  which 
the  vague  shadows  melted  into  a  shimmering  back- 
ground. The  crackling  of  the  fire  annoyed  him  be- 
cause it  suggested  the  possibility  of  physical  com- 
fort, and  he  no  longer  wanted  to  be  comfortable. 

"Smith,"  said  Banks,  coming  over  to  the  bed  and 
pulling  off  the  overcoat,  "I  've  got  a  good  fire  here 
and  a  chair.  I  wish  you  'd  get  up.  Good  Lord, 
your  hands  are  as  hot  as  a  hornet's  nest.  When 
did  you  eat  anything?" 

"I  had  breakfast  in  Botetourt,"  replied  Ordway, 
as  he  rose  from  the  bed  and  came  over  to  the  chair 
Banks  had  prepared.  "I  can't  remember  when  it 
was,  but  it  must  have  been  since  the  creation  of  the 
world,  I  suppose."  The  fire  grew  suddenly  black 
before  him,  "I  'd  rather  lie  down,"  he  added,  "my 
head  is  splitting  and  I  can't  see." 

"Oh,  you  '11  see  all  right  in  a  minute.  Wait  till  I 
light  this  candle,  so  the  electric  light  won't  hurt 


478  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

your  eyes.  The  boy  's  gone  for  a  little  supper,  and 
as  soon  as  you  've  swallowed  a  mouthful  you  '11  begin 
to  feel  better." 

"But  I'm  not  hungry.  I  won't  eat,"  returned 
Ordway,  with  an  irritable  feeling  that  Banks  was 
looming  into  a  responsibility.  Anything  that  pulled 
one  back  to  life  was  what  he  wanted  to  escape,  and 
even  the  affection  of  Banks  might  prove,  he  thought, 
tenaciously  clinging.  One  resolution  he  had  made 
in  the  beginning — he  would  not  take  up  his  life  again 
for  the  sake  of  Banks. 

"Yes,  you  must,  Smith,"  remonstrated  the  other, 
with  an  angelic  patience  which  gave  him,  if  possible, 
a  more  foolish  aspect.  "It  's  after  six  o'clock  and 
you  have  n't  had  a  bite  since  yesterday  at  eight. 
That 's  why  your  head  's  so  light  and  you  're  in  a 
raging  fever." 

"It  isn't  that,  Banks,  it  's  because  I  Ve  got  to 
die,"  he  answered.  "If  they  don't  hush  things  up 
with  money,  I  may  have  to  go  back  to  prison." 
As  he  said  the  words  he  saw  again  the  prison  coat, 
with  the  double  stripes  of  a  second  term,  as  in  the 
instant  of  his  hallucination. 

"I  know,"  said  Banks,  softly,  as  he  bent  over  to 
poke  the  fire.  "There  was  a  line  or  two  about  it  in  a 
New  York  paper.  But  they  '11  hush  it  up,  and  be- 
sides they  said  it  was  just  suspicion." 

"You  knew  all  the  time  and  yet  you  wanted  me 
to  go  back  to  Tappahannock  ? " 

"  Oh,  they  don't  read  the  papers  much  there,  except 
the  Tappahannock  Herald,  and  it  won't  get  into 


THE   END   OF  THE   ROAD  479 

that.  It  was  just  a  silly  little  slip  anyway,  and 
not  two  dozen  people  will  be  likely  to  know  what 
it  meant." 

"And  you,  Banks?  What  do  you  think?"  he  asked 
with  a  mild  curiosity. 

Banks  shook  his  head.  "Why,  what's  the  use 
in  your  asking?"  he  replied.  "Of  course,  I  know 
that  you  did  n't  do  it,  and  if  you  had  done  it,  it  would 
have  been  just  because  the  other  man  ought  to  have 
written  his  name  and  would  n't,"  he  concluded, 
unblushingly. 

For  a  moment  Ordway  looked  at  him  in  silence. 
"You  're  a  good  chap,  Banks,"  he  said  at  last  in  a 
dull  voice.  Again  he  felt,  with  an  awakened  irrita- 
tion, that  the  absurd  Banks  was  pulling  him  back 
to  life.  Was  it  impossible,  after  all,  that  a  man 
should  give  up,  as  long  as  there  remained  a  soul  alive 
who  believed  in  him?  It  was  n't  only  the  love  of 
women,  then,  that  renewed  courage.  He  had  loved 
both  Emily  and  Alice,  and  yet  they  were  of  less  im- 
portance in  his  life  at  this  hour  than  was  Banks, 
whom  he  had  merely  endured.  Yet  he  had  thoxight 
the  love  of  Emily  a  great  thing  and  that  of  Banks 
a  small  one. 

His  gaze  went  back  to  the  flames,  and  he  did  not 
remove  it  when  a  knock  came  at  the  door,  and  supper 
was  brought  in  and  placed  on  a  little  table  before  the 
fire. 

"I  ordered  a  bowl  of  soup  for  you,  Smith,"  said 
Banks,  crumbling  the  bread  into  it  as  he  spoke,  as 
if  he  were  preparing  a  meal  for  a  baby,  "and  a  good 


480  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

stout  piece  of  beefsteak  for  myself.  Now  drink  this 
whiskey,  won't  you." 

"I'm  not  hungry,"  returned  Ordway,  pushing 
the  glass  away,  after  it  had  touched  his  lips.  "I 
won't  eat." 

Banks  placed  the  bowl  of  soup  on  the  fender,  and 
then  sat  down  with  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  tray. 
"I  haven't  had  a  bite  myself  since  breakfast,"  he 
remarked,  "and  I  'm  pretty  faintish,  but  I  tell  you, 
Smith,  if  it 's  the  last  word  I  speak,  that  I  won't  put 
my  knife  into  that  beefsteak  until  you  've  eaten 
your  soup — no,  not  if  I  die  right  here  of  starvation." 

"Well,  I  'm  sorry  you  're  such  a  fool,  for  I  Ve  no 
intention  of  eating  it.  I  left  you  my  whiskey,  you 
can  take  that." 

"  I  should  n't  dare  to  on  an  empty  stomach.  I  get 
drunk  too  quick." 

For  a  few  minutes  he  sat  in  silence  regarding  the 
supper  with  a  hungry  look;  then  selecting  a  thin  slice 
of  bread,  he  stuck  it  on  the  end  of  a  fork,  and  kneeling 
upon  the  hearthrug,  held  it  out  to  the  glowing  coals. 
As  it  turned  gradually  to  a  delicious  crisp  brown,  the 
appetising  smell  of  it  floated  to  Ord way's  nostrils. 

"I  always  had  a  particular  taste  for  toast,"  re- 
marked Banks  as  he  buttered  the  slice  and  laid  it  on 
a  hot  plate  on  the  fender.  When  he  took  up  a  second 
one,  Ordway  watched  him  with  an  attention  of 
which  he  was  almost  unconscious,  and  he  did  not 
remove  his  gaze  from  the  fire,  until  the  last  slice,  brown 
and  freshly  buttered,  was  laid  carefully  upon  the 
others.  As  he  finished  Banks  threw  down  his  fork,  and 


THE   END   OF  THE    ROAD  481 

rising  to  his  feet,  looked  wistfully  at  the  beef- 
steak, keeping  hot  before  the  cheerful  flames. 

"It 's  kind  of  rare,  just  as  I  like  it,"  he  observed, 
0  thick  and  juicy,  with  little  brown  streaks  from  the 
broiler,  and  a  few  mushrooms  scattered  gracefully 
on  top.  Tappahannock  is  a  mighty  poor  place  for 
a  steak,"  he  concluded  resignedly,  "  it  ain't  often  I 
have  a  chance  at  one,  but  I  thought  to-night  being 
Christmas " 

"Then,  for  God's  sake,  eat  it! "  thundered  Ordway, 
while  he  made  a  dash  for  his  soup. 

But  an  hour  after  he  had  taken  it,  his  fever  rose 
so  high  that  Banks  helped  him  into  bed  and  rushed 
out  in  alarm  for  the  doctor. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  LIGHT  BEYOND 

OUT  of  the  obscurity  of  the  next  few  weeks,  he 
brought,  with  the  memory  of  Banks  hovering  about 
his  bed,  the  vague  impression  of  a  woman's  step  across 
his  floor  and  a  woman's  touch  on  his  brow  and  hands. 
When  he  returned  to  consciousness  the  woman's 
step  and  touch  had  vanished,  but  Banks  was  still 
nursing  him  with  his  infinite  patience  and  his  silly, 
good-humoured  smile.  The  rest  was  a  dream,  he  said 
to  himself,  resignedly,  as  he  turned  his  face  to  the 
wall  and  slept. 

On  a  mild  January  morning,  when  he  came  down- 
stairs for  the  first  time,  and  went  with  Banks  out  into 
the  open  square  in  front  of  the  hotel,  he  put  almost 
timidly  the  question  which  had  been  throbbing  in 
his  brain  for  weeks. 

"Was  there  anybody  else  with  me,  Banks?  I 
thought — I  dreamed — I  couldn't  get  rid  of  it " 

"Who  else  could  there  have  been?"  asked  Banks, 
and  he  stared  straight  before  him,  at  the  slender 
spire  of  the  big,  gray  church  in  the  next  block.  So 
the  mystery  would  remain  unsolved,  Ordway  under- 
stood, and  he  would  go  back  to  life  cherishing  either 
a  divine  memory  or  a  phantasy  of  delirium. 

After  a  little  while  Banks  went  off  to  the  chemists* 
482 


THE   LIGHT   BEYOND  483 

with  a  prescription,  and  Ordway  sat  alone  on  a  bench 
in  the  warm  sunshine,  which  was  rapidly  melting  the 
snow.  It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  presently  the 
congregation  streamed  slowly  past  him  on  its  way 
to  the  big  gray  church  just  beyond.  A  bright  blue 
sky  was  overhead,  the  sound  of  bells  was  in  the 
air,  and  under  the  melting  snow  he  saw  that 
the  grass  was  still  fresh  and  green.  As  he  sat  there 
in  the  wonderful  Sabbath  stillness,  he  felt,  v/ith  a 
new  sense  of  security,  of  reconciliation,  that  his  life 
had  again  been  taken  out  of  his  hands  and  adjusted 
without  his  knowledge.  This  time  it  had  been 
Banks — Banks,  the  impossible — who  had  swayed 
his  destiny,  and  lacking  all  other  attributes,  Banks 
had  accomplished  it  through  the  simple  power  of  the 
human  touch.  In  the  hour  of  his  need  it  had  been 
neither  religion  nor  philosophy,  but  the  outstretched 
hand,  that  had  helped.  Then  his  vision  broadened 
and  he  saw  that  though  the  body  of  love  is  one,  the 
members  of  it  are  infinite ;  and  it  was  made  plain  to 
him  at  last,  that  the  love  of  Emily,  the  love  of  Alice, 
and  the  love  of  Banks,  were  but  different  revelations  of 
the  same  immortality.  He  had  gone  down  into  the 
deep  places,  and  out  of  them  he  had  brought  this 
light,  this  message.  As  the  people  streamed  past 
him  to  the  big  gray  church,  he  felt  that  if  they 
would  only  stop  and  listen,  he  could  tell  them  in  the 
open,  not  in  walls,  of  the  thing  that  they  were  seeking. 
Yet  the  time  had  not  come,  though  in  the  hope  of  it 
he  could  sit  there  patiently  under  the  blue  sky,  with 
the  snow  melting  over  the  grass  at  his  feet. 


484  THE   ANCIENT   LAW 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  Banks  returned,  and  stood 
over  him  with  affectionate  anxiety.  "  In  a  few 
days  you  11  be  well  enough  to  travel,  Smith,  and  I  11 
take  you  back  with  me  to  Tappahannock." 

Ordway  glanced  up,  smiling,  and  Banks  saw  in  his 
face,  so  thin  that  the  flesh  seemed  almost  transparent, 
the  rapt  and  luminous  look  with  which  he  had  stood 
over  his  Bible  in  the  green  field  or  in  the  little  grove 
of  pines. 

"You  will  go  back  to  Tappahannock  and  Baxter 
will  take  you  in  until  you  grow  strong  and  well,  and 
then  you  can  start  your  schools,  or  your  library,  and 
look  after  the  mills  instead  of  letting  Baxter  do  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Ordway,  "yes,"  but  he  had  hardly 
heard  Banks's  words,  for  his  gaze  was  on  the  blue 
sky,  against  which  the  spire  of  the  church  rose  like 
a  pointing  finger.  His  face  shone  as  if  from  an  in- 
ward flame,  and  this  flame,  burning  clearly  in  his 
blue  eyes,  transfigured  his  look.  Ah,  Smith  was 
always  a  dreamer,  thought  Banks,  with  the  uncom- 
prehending simplicity  of  a  child. 

But  Ordway  was  looking  beyond  Banks,  beyond 
the  church  spire,  beyond  the  blue  sky.  He  saw 
himself,  not  as  Banks  pictured  him,  living  quietly  in 
Tappahannock,  but  still  struggling,  still  fighting,  still 
falling  to  rise  and  go  on  again.  His  message  was 
not  for  Tappahannock  alone,  but  for  all  places  where 
there  were  men  and  women  working  and  suffering 
and  going  into  prison  and  coming  out.  He  heard 
his  voice  speaking  to  them  in  the  square  of  this  town ; 
then  in  many  squares  and  in  many  towns 


THE   LIGHT   BEYOND  485 

"Come,"  said  Banks  softly,  "the  wind  is  changing. 
It  is  time  to  go  in." 

With  an  effort  Ordway  withdrew  his  gaze  from 
the  church  spire.  Then  leaning  upon  Banks's  arm,  he 
slowly  crossed  the  square  to  the  door  of  the  hotel. 
But  before  going  inside,  he  turned  and  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  back  at  the  grass  which  showed 
fresh  and  green  under  the  melting  snow. 


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